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THE RIVERPARK REBELLION 


HOMER GREENE’S BOOKS. 


THE BLIND BROTHER. A Story of the Mines. 
Fully Illustrated. 12010. Cloth. 90 cents. 

BURNHAM BREAKER. A Story of the Coal 
Regions. With Frontispiece. 12100. Cloth. $1.50 

THE RIVERPARK REBELLION and A 
TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. Illustrated 
by H. W. Peirce. 12010. Cloth. $1.00. 

For sale by all Booksellers. Catalogues sent free 
upoji application. 


T. Y. CROWELL & GO., New York and Boston. 




“Anything else I can git for ye, young gentlemen?” 

Page 98. 


THE 


Riverpark Rebellion 

AND 

31 Cale of tljc Coto'^at^ 



HOMER GREENE 


AUTHOR OF “THE BLIND BROTHER,” “ BURNHAM BREAKER” 

ETC. 


r 


y i v S'V 


New York: 46 East Fourteenth Street 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL AND COMPANY 
Boston: ioo Purchase Street 





Copyright, 1S89, 1892 , 

Bv Perry Mason & Co. 


Copyright, 1892, 

By T. Y. Crowell & Co. 


/ 2 - 3Z&YY 


SHntocrsttg $rcss: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 


®f )ts Uolume is Eetercntlg Enscrtbeft to tlje Jiflcmorg 

OF 

Colonel OTIS BISBEE, 

Who, in his lifetime , was Principal of the Riverview Military 
Academy at Poughkeepsie , N. Y., and under whose 
guidance and instruction , long ago , two 
happy years were spent 


By the Author. 









CONTENTS 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. A Loss of Temper 7 

II. Changing the Record 28 

III. An Impertinent Petition 49 

IV. The Order of the Black Star ... 70 

V. A Hapless Holiday 89 

VI. Quartered on a Hay-mow 109 

VII. The Return of the Fugitives . . . 128 

VIII. A General Amnesty 148 

A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

I. The Result of a Whipping 169 

II. Who Took Old Charlie? 187 

III. On the Canal 205 

IV. Captain Bill Buys a Horse 224 

V. Homeward Bound 242 

VI. Old Charlie Brings Back Joe .... 260 


* 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


CHAPTER I. 

A LOSS OF TEMPER. 

“ Battalion, right forward, fours right, 
march ! Guide left ! ” 

The command was sharp, distinct, sol- 
dierly. The first set of fours moved 
straight to the front with unhesitating 
firmness and uniformity of step ; the or- 
derly sergeant took his place to the left of 
the set with ease and rapidity. The re- 
mainder of the battalion broke into fours, 
wheeling to the right with promptness and 
precision, and in the next moment the en- 
tire column was on the march. 

The Riverpark Academy corps of ca- 
dets were the best-drilled troops outside 
of West Point. The uniform was dark 
blue; the belts, gloves, and shoulder-belts 


8 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION, 


were white, and the breastplates were of 
polished brass. The barrels of the cadets’ 
muskets glittered in the April sunlight, 
as they marched and counter-marched, 
wheeled to the right and left, marked- 
time, and halted. 

There was a short interval of rest. The 
boys in the ranks talked freely, laughed, 
shouted at one another, leaning out from 
the line to do so, making strenuous efforts, 
nevertheless, to keep one foot in place, 
according to the rule. 

Major Drumlist, the drill-master, wiped 
the perspiration from his face, exchanged 
a few words with the members of his staff, 
and then called the troops to attention. 

He divided the battalion into four pla- 
toons, and placed each platoon in charge 
of an officer, with directions to instruct the 
men more thoroughly in the art of wheel- 
ing. Upton’s infantry tactics, which had 
recently been adopted in the United States 
Army, had but lately come into use at 
Riverpark ; and as the excellence of the 
new system depended largely on the per- 
fection attained in the wheelings, it seemed 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


9 


necessary to give much time and attention 
to that particular branch. 

The third platoon, in the absence of 
Lieutenant Smeath, of Company B, was 
placed in charge of Adjutant Brightly, who 
marched his men to the southerly part of 
the parade-ground, and began a systematic 
drill, as directed. The adjutant was a lad 
of sixteen years. He was well-propor- 
tioned, stood erect, and looked the typical 
soldier throughout. He was well versed 
in the tactics and an excellent drill-master, 
but it was apparent that to-day he had little 
heart in his task. The men in the ranks 
noticed his indifference, and took advan- 
tage of it. The major came down to them 
in his round of inspection. 

“Lieutenant Brightly,” he said, “you are 
too easy with your men to-day. Give your 
commands as though you meant they 
should be obeyed, and see that strict disci- 
pline is maintained in the ranks.” 

This admonition roused the lad’s spirit, — 
not so much a spirit of emulation as of im- 
patience at reproof. As the major passed 
on to the next platoon, Brightly became 


IO 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


more strict; but his severity was now 
apparently without effect. The loose dis- 
cipline of the first ten minutes had so 
demoralized the men that they were 
awkward and slow, and it seemed im- 
possible to keep them in good alignment 
while they were in motion. Now the 
centre would bow out and then in ; 
now the pivot would turn too rapidly, 
or the flank break away and come crowd- 
ing up with broken step. Nothing went 
well. The adjutant became heated, an- 
noyed, impatient, and finally quite lost 
his temper. 

There was one man near the centre of 
the line who particularly vexed him. He 
was constantly either too far to the front 
or to the rear, or breaking touch toward 
the guiding flank. Brightly had spoken 
severely to him several times. At last he 
said, — 

“ Belcher, if you don’t do better, I shall 
send you to the awkward squad. You are 
a disgrace to your company.” 

The boy looked out angrily from the 
ranks, and made as if to reply. 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. II 

“ Stop ! ” exclaimed the officer. “Not a 
word ! There ’s no possible excuse for 
you. You have eyes; you can see. You 
have arms; you can keep touch. Now 
pay attention to your duties.” 

Again the platoon was wheeled, and 
again Belcher pushed out ahead of the 
line, and broke it hopelessly in the centre. 
Brightly, who was at the pivot, watching 
the alignment, was exasperated beyond 
endurance. He passed swiftly down the 
front, and struck the flat of his sword 
against Belcher’s breastplate with force 
enough to make it clatter. 

“ Keep back !” he' shouted; “keep back! 
An idiot would know enough to keep the 
line ! ” 

The platoon was no sooner halted than 
Belcher stepped one pace to the front, and 
brought his hand up against his musket at 
the shoulder with a force that made it 
rattle, thus signifying his desire to speak. 

“ Step back into the ranks, sir! ” ordered 
Brightly. “Take your place, I say!” as 
the lad hesitated. “ I ’ll do what talking ’s 
to be done, and you ’ll obey orders ! ” 


12 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


Belcher stepped back, muttering angrily, 
his face pale with passion and his eyes 
flashing fiercely. 

Up by the color-staff the bugle sounded 
the recall. The officers marched their 
platoons to common ground, wheeled them 
into line, and reported to the major. The 
battalion was then broken into compan- 
ies, and these were marched to com- 
pany grounds and dismissed by the first 
sergeants. 

Lieutenant Brightly crossed the parade- 1 
ground leisurely, entered the academy 
building, mounted three flights of stairs, 
and passed to his room in the southwest an- 
gle. He threw his cap, gloves, and sword 
on the bed, drew a chair to the window, 
seated himself, and looked listlessly out. 

The beautiful landscape, with the Hud- 
son River in the distance, had little attrac- 
tion for him. Indeed, nothing interested 
him that he could see either on lajid or 
water. It was evident that his mind was 
preoccupied, and the look of discontent 
and discouragement on his face showed 
that his thoughts were not pleasant ones. 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


13 


There was a quick step in the hall, and 
presently Harple came into the room. 
Harple was Brightly’s room-mate. He 
and Brightly had roomed together for 
nearly two years, and aside from little 
wordy encounters carried on in jest rather 
than in earnest, they had never had a 
quarrel. Harple was captain of Com- 
pany B. He was a good soldier, a good 
student, a good fellow, and as fond of 
Brightly as if they had been brothers. 

“ Come on, Bright ! ” he exclaimed, as 
he entered. “ Roberts and I are going to 
get a permit for a walk, and we ’re going 
down to the pine grove. Come along with 
: 'us ; it ’s a charming day, and we ’ll have a 
good time.” 

“ Oh, I don’t care about going out this 
afternoon, Charley ; I ’m too indolent. Be- 
sides, I have some letters to write ; ” and 
Brightly threw his arms up and locked his 
fingers behind his head with a yawn. 

“ I ’ll tell you what it is,” responded 
Harple, earnestly, “ you ’ll get indolent and 
careless and everything else if you keep 
on in this way. You have n’t been out 


14 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


of the grounds for a week ; you have n’t 
studied a lesson with vim for a fort- 
night; you haven’t cared for three months 
whether school kept or not. I tell you, 
Bright, you ’ve got to brace up. If you 
keep this thing going much longer, you ’ll 
wake up some day and find yourself — ” 

The speaker paused for an appropriate 
word ; then snapping his thumb and fore- 
finger high in the air in such a way as to 
indicate something being sent whirling 
into space, he continued, “eliminated. 
Now you know what that means.” 

Brightly looked up, evidently annoyed. 

“ I have n’t asked you for any advice, 
have I, Charley ? ” he said. 

“ No, but I propose to give you some, all 
the same,” responded Harple, throwing his 
red-silk officer’s sash across the foot of his 
bed, and seating himself astride the only 
other chair in the room. “ I ’ve had this 
thing on my mind for some time,” he con- 
tinued; “ and to-day, when I saw you make 
such a fool of yourself with Belcher — par- 
don the expression — I concluded to let 
out on you. 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


15 


“I can’t conceive what you’re thinking 
of, Bright ! For a year and a half you 
were the A No. 1 fellow in this school; but 
for four months, without any reasonable 
cause, you ’ve stood still in your tracks. 
You ’ve kept up with your classes because 
you could n’t help it ; but you ’ve sat and 
moped and growled till you ’re fossilized 
and moulded, and the moss is growing on 
you. To-day you woke up long enough 
to get into an undignified squabble with a 
private in the ranks, and now you ’re go- 
ing to drop off to sleep again. Brace up, 
Bright ! For goodness’ sake, brace up, 
and don’t let yourself go to the dogs this 
way ! ” 

Brightly looked a little surprised at first, 
then slightly indignant, and then, with a 
forced air of weariness, he replied, — 

“ Don’t worry about me, Charley. I 
feel fully competent to take care of my- 
self.” After a moment’s pause, he con- 
tinued with more vigor: “But I will be 
obeyed in the ranks. Belcher was ob- 
stinate and ugly. I lost all patience with 
him, and I went further than I ought; I 


1 6 THE R1VERPARK REBELLION. 

admit that, but the circumstances were a 
sufficient excuse.” 

“ No, they were not. They were aggra- 
vating ; so much the more reason why 
you should hold your temper. You re- 
member Colonel Silsbee warned us, when 
we were commissioned, to exercise pa- 
tience as well as firmness, and to — ” 

“ Oh, don’t quote Colonel Silsbee to 
me ! If he does n’t want me to reprove 
his blockheads he’s not obliged to keep 
me in commission. He might as well 
have left me in the ranks in the first place, 
so far as that is concerned.” 

Harple drew his chair a trifle nearer. 

“ Bright, look here ! I know what the 
trouble is ; it ’s all about that matter of the 
appointments. You ought to have been 
captain of Company A, — I admit that 
freely; you deserved it on every account; 
but what ’s the use in giving up to disap- 
pointment? You have a good thing as 
it is. There is n’t a more showy, respon- 
sible, soldierly position in the battalion 
than that of adjutant. And then there 
are only two of us who out-rank you, 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


17 

Brede and I ; and as for me, you know I ’d 
Jay down my sword and shoulder-straps 
and go back into the ranks to-morrow if it 
could help you, or bring you to yourself 
again.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know that. I don’t care so 
much about your ranking me, Charley; 
that’s all right. You’re fitted to fill any 
position you get, and you deserve the best. 
It simply occurs to me that after a fellow 
has been here two years, and has stood at 
the head of the school in study-marks, and 
has behaved himself reasonably well, he 
should n’t be insulted by having such an 
egotistical fool as Brede is placed over 
him in rank.” 

“Well, Brede can’t really help being 
stuck up and silly ; it ’s in him. But he 
makes a good officer in many respects ; he 
does n’t get easily embarrassed, has plenty 
of self-esteem — ” 

“ Oh, yes, lots of it; struts around in his 
shoulder-straps as though he owned the 
school ; is constantly showing his infinite 
superiority over everybody in general and 
me in particular. It ’s a good thing I ’m 
2 


1 8 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

on the staff and not under his immediate 
command. I would n’t stand his insolence 
for an hour. I detest the fellow, — abso- 
lutely detest him ! ” 

“ Well, I ’ll admit that he ’s not a lovable 
character; but Colonel Silsbee had some 
good reason for making him the ranking 
cadet- officer, you may be sure, and it ’s our 
duty as soldiers to accept the situation 
and make the best of it.” 

“ Good reason, did you say ? Good 
reason ! Harple, I ’ll tell you why Brede 
is captain and I ’m only lieutenant ; it’s 
because his father is a general in the army 
and worth a hundred thousand dollars, and 
my mother has to stint herself in order to 
pay for my schooling. Now, that ’s what 
hurts me; it’s the rank injustice of it!” 

Brightly had risen to his feet, and was 
pacing the floor savagely. “ Bright,” ex- 
claimed his friend, “ Bright, don’t say 
that! You do wrong to believe it; you 
can’t believe it. I tell you if it is n’t all a 
mistake there’s some good reason for it, 
and one that does no discredit to you, or 
to Colonel Silsbee either. Why can’t you 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


19 


let it rest at that, Bright, and brace up. 
Get back to where you were three months 
ago, and stay there, and don’t give Brede 
and his set the chance to see you go to 
pieces. 

“ And there ’s another thing, too,” con- 
tinued Harple, as Brightly seated himself 
again in the chair by the window. “ I ’m 
afraid there’s going to be trouble here be- 
fore the term is over. There ’s a kind of 
uneasiness among the boys ; they ’ve been 
up to a good deal of mischief lately, and 
the colonel ’s drawing the lines pretty tight, 
and they ’re chafing under ’em. It gets that 
way every year, — it seems to come in with 
the spring air; but I ’ve never seen it so 
bad before as it is now. It would n’t take 
much to start a first-class insurrection. If 
such a storm comes, Bright, I don’t want 
you to get swept away in it. I ’d be 
awfully sorry to see you lose your head 
entirely.” 

Brightly appreciated his friend’s unself- 
ish anxiety and earnestness on his account, 
but he was not deeply impressed with Har- 
ple’s argument. There was a tender pitch 


20 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


to his voice though, as he laughed a little, 
said he guessed there was no danger, and 
continued, more earnestly : “ But I ’m much 
obliged to you, Charley ; you mean well by 
me, and you ’re a good fellow. I ’ll try not 
to disgrace you anyway.” 

“ All right ! I must go now ; Roberts ’ll 
wonder what ’s become of me. Say, Bright,” 
turning back into the room, “ look out for 
Belcher! He’s breathing out threaten- 
ings and slaughter against you. Keep 
your temper; don’t let him draw you into 
a quarrel, — he’s a bad lot. That’s all 
to-day. No charge. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by.” 

At six o’clock, when the signal for re- 
treat was sounded, a steady storm had set 
in, and the line was formed in the drill-hall. 
Brightly came down while the roll was 
being called, and, in the absence of the 
major, received the salutes and reports of 
the inferior staff-officers. It grew to be 
so dark in the hall that the wall lamps 
were lighted. 

After retreat the boys usually re- 
mained downstairs until the supper-bell 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


21 


was rung; and to-night, on account of the 
storm, nearly every one was in the drill- 
hall. Some were gathered in groups, 
some promenaded up and down the hall, 
some ran about playing jokes on their 
companions. 

Among these last was a boy of twelve 
or fourteen, whom capricious nature had 
rendered so extravagantly obese that he re- 
sembled a great, overgrown baby. He had 
a round, good-natured face, a complexion 
as fair and rosy as a girl’s, and a voice that 
would have done credit to a miss of fifteen. 
When he walked or ran, the flesh on his 
body shook and tumbled about like jelly. 

Those upon whom his pranks were be- 
ing played turned on him at last, a dozen 
of them, and backing him up against the 
wall, amused themselves by running full 
tilt against him and rebounding from his 
elastic body. 

Finally they dragged him to a corner of 
the drill-hall, where a large box stood on 
end, and hoisting him to the top of it with 
much roughness, they bent before him in 
mock reverence, hailing him as “ His Fat- 


22 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


ness the King of Hogland.” He beamed 
down upon them good-naturedly for a 
moment, and then replied, in his peculiar, 
falsetto voice, — 

“ I thank you kindly, my dear little pigs. 
You shall have an extra allowance of pig- 
feed to-night to pay you for these marks 
of high esteem.” 

The next moment his round face took 
on a look of feigned horror; he rolled awk- 
wardly down from his perch, and fled with 
ludicrous haste across the hall, followed 
by an increased crowd of tormentors. 

Brightly stood in a corner watching the 
rude play, and laughing listlessly. Captain 
Brede and Cadet Belcher were walking up 
and down the south side of the drill-hall, 
conversing together in low tones. 

“ I would n't stand it,” said Brede, look- 
ing furtively at Brightly as they passed. 
“ I ’d let him know he could n’t insult me 
if I was in the ranks. And he struck you 
with his sword ; why, I heard the blow 
myself. It’s an outrage, — it’s a brutal 
outrage. He would n’t use a man that way 
the second time that belongs to my com- 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


23 


pany, I can tell you ; but Harple, your 
captain, why Harple ’d lie down and roll 
over to let Brightly stamp on him. No, 
sir! You’ll never get any satisfaction 
unless you take it yourself.” 

Belcher looked across to where Brightly 
was still standing, as if measuring with 
his eye the muscular strength of the young 
adjutant. 

“ I ’ve a mind to tackle him now,” he 
said. “ I can tell him what I think of 
him, anyway.” 

“ I would ; I ’d do it. And if he gives 
you any of his impudence, slap his face 
for him. You Ve got a right to; he ’s no 
better than you are, out of ranks. He 
deserves a good thrashing, anyway, and 
I ’d like to see him get it.” 

They were crossing the hall now, toward 
Brightly. Belcher was working himself 
into an appropriate frame of mind for the 
attack on his intended victim. 

“ Give it to him, Belch ! ” urged Brede 
again, in a whisper; “give it to him ! I ’ll 
stand by you. I ’ll see you through it.” 

Thus encouraged, Belcher loosed his 


24 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


hold on the captain’s arm and walked 
directly up to Brightly, while Brede, stand- 
ing at a little distance from them, looked 
on with a cruel light in his gray eyes and 
a cruel smile on his thin lips. 

He did not care so much that Belcher 
should be protected as he did that Brightly 
should be punished. He was shrewd and 
unscrupulous; he was proud and boastful. 
By his craft he had gained standing in 
his studies ; by his self-laudation he had 
gained a following in the school. 

But Brightly had seen through him, had 
measured him, had disliked him from the 
start. Brede knew it, and it angered him. 
He employed every means in his power to 
hurt Brightly without incurring the risk 
of a personal encounter. His triumph 
when he obtained the ranking cadet- 
office was great but short-lived. Brightly 
ignored him and snubbed him more after 
that than he ever had before, and this 
engendered hate in his heart. 

He longed to see this fellow humbled, 
subdued, punished, degraded. This was 
why he was urging Belcher on. He knew 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


25 


that Belcher would probably get worsted 
in an encounter; he did not care for that 
if only Brightly were disgraced. 

Belcher stepped before the adjutant in 
a threatening attitude, with his hands 
clinched at his side. 

“ I want to know,” he said, “ what right 
you had to insult me in the ranks to-day, 
and to strike me with your sword?” 

Brightly folded his arms, and looked 
coolly at his antagonist. 

“ I do not,” he replied, “ explain my 
conduct as an officer to a private in the 
ranks.” 

“Your conduct as a bully!” exclaimed 
Belcher. “ An officer who is a gentle- 
man would n’t be guilty of doing what you 
did to-day. You were given the office of 
adjutant because it was a place where 
you could do the least mischief, and you 
would n’t have got that if your mother 
had n’t come here and begged it for you. 
You got it out of pity.” 

Brightly’s eyes began to flash, but his 
arms still remained folded. 

“ That ’s a lie,” he said deliberately. 


2 6 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


Already a crowd had gathered around 
the two boys. Some had heard Belcher’s 
loud words, others had scented the trouble 
from afar. They swarmed to the scene of 
conflict, as boys always do, like honey-bees 
to a field of clover. 

They were pressing in wildly toward 
the two disputants. They had expected a 
quarrel between them, and now it was on. 
They were bound to see and hear the 
whole of it. 

Belcher had worked himself into a white 
heat. 

“ Officer ! ” he exclaimed sarcastically ; 
“officer! You’re nothing but a cowardly 
bully ! ” 

Brightly’s arms were loosed and dropped 
to his side. His face grew pale. His 
fingers twitched convulsively, the veins on 
his forehead stood out dark and promi- 
nent. “ One more word,” he said slowly, 
“ and I ’ll strike you.” 

<C A hundred words if you like,” replied 
Belcher, passionately, “and strike if you 
dare ! I repeat it that you ’re a cowardly 
bully and a disgrace to — ” 


A LOSS OF TEMPER. 


2 7 


He had not time to finish the sentence. 
Brightly ’s hand came up like a flash ; 
but his stroke was parried and returned. 
Blows fell from each in quick succession ; 
then the combatants clinched, and the 
next moment they were struggling in 
each other’s arms with the fury of wild 
beasts. 


CHAPTER II. 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 

The fight was fierce but short. 

Harple entered the drill-hall from the 
stairway, stood for a moment in terrified 
astonishment, and then pushed his way 
violently through the crowd to the enraged 
combatants. 

“Stop this!” he cried, laying a firm 
hand on each wrestler; but in an instant 
they had broken from his grasp, and fell, 
struggling, panting, and still fighting, to 
the floor. 

“ Bright ! ” he called, kneeling above 
them, and trying to gain a new hold, 
“ Bright, for goodness’ sake ! ” 

The door from the dining-room was 
opened, and in the doorway was framed 
the stalwart figure of Colonel Silsbee. 
He took in the situation at a glance, and 
strode hastily toward the combatants. 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 


29 


The crowd separated as if by magic to 
let him pass ; but before he reached the 
struggling figures on the floor, they, too, 
had become aware of his presence, had 
loosed their hold of each other, and had 
risen to their feet. 

They were a sorry sight. Their cloth- 
ing was torn, their hair dishevelled, their 
faces bruised and bloody. For a moment 
there was no sound in the room ; the 
silence was appalling. Then Colonel 
Silsbee spoke, — 

“ Boys, this is disgraceful ! I hope never 
to witness a scene like this in my school 
again. Lieutenant Brightly and Cadet 
Belcher, you will both report at my office 
at half-past seven o’clock. Drummer, beat 
the mess-call ! ” 

Belcher was led back to the faucet by 
his friends, and Brightly was hurried up 
to his room by Harple, while the battalion 
fell in for supper. 

“ Charley, I ’ve made a fool of myself, 
have n’t I ? ” asked Brightly, when the 
door of their room was closed on them. 

“ I ’m afraid you have, Bright/’ was the 


30 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


reply. “ I guess you ’ve spoiled everything 
now. You’ve lost your shoulder-straps 
without doubt.” 

Harple took the pitcher and hurried 
down the hall for some warm water with 
which to bathe his friend’s wounds. “ I 
have n’t much hope for you after this,” he 
said, returning. “You simply won’t listen 
to advice.” 

“Well, how could I help it, Charley?” 
Brightly stood in his shirt-sleeves, waiting 
for the water. His wrath was rising again 
at the remembrance of Belcher’s taunting 
words. 

“ How could I help it ? ” he repeated. 
“ A fellow would have to be more than 
human to stand such abuse. It was 
simply impossible not to strike him.” 

“Well, there’s no use talking about it; 
that part of it ’s over. The next chapter 
is what you ’ve got to look out for now, — 
the one that opens up at half-past seven. 
If I thought you ’d take any advice at all, 
I ’d counsel you, when you get in before 
Colonel Silsbee, to own up, say you are 
sorry, agree to abide squarely by your sen- 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 31 

tence, and then go to work and get back 
to your old place again.” 

Harple bathed his chum’s face and neck 
carefully, and dressed a slight wound on 
the cheek. Clean linen and a fresh coat 
restored Brightly to an appearance of re- 
spectability, and then the two hurried 
down to the supper-room. 

At half-past seven o’clock the principal 
of Riverpark Academy sat in his office, 
awaiting the appearance of the offenders. 
He was troubled and anxious, — not so 
much because two of his pupils had en- 
gaged in a rough-and-tumble fight, as be- 
cause the entire school seemed trembling 
on the verge of disorder, of which he 
feared that this encounter was the first 
serious manifestation. 

For some weeks he had noticed this 
tendency toward mischief and toward re- 
bellion against rules of the school, and it 
worried him. He had had the same expe- 
rience in former years ; but the warmth of 
the advancing season and the excitement 
of out-door sports had heretofore served 
to dissipate disorderly tendencies, and he 


32 THE RIVER PARK REBELLION. 

could only hope that such might now be 
the case. 

Promptly at the hour named Belcher 
came into the office. A moment later 
Brightly entered also. They stood re- 
spectfully, undergoing with apparent com- 
posure the sharp scrutiny of the principal. 

“ Boys,” said Colonel Silsbee at last, “ I 
did not summon you here to hear excuses 
for your conduct. There can be no possi- 
ble excuse for it. It is intended that this 
school shall be composed of soldiers and 
gentlemen, and they never descend to such 
encounters as yours has been. The in- 
stinct that impels one man in the heat of 
passion to strike another is a brutal in- 
stinct, and in my school it must be kept 
down. I intend to subject each of you to 
severe punishment; but lest I should do 
either of you an injustice, I desire to hear 
from you an account of the trouble, and of 
the causes which led to it. Belcher, you 
may give me your statement.” 

The lad addressed advanced a step and 
laid his hand on the table. 

“ It began,” he said, “ this afternoon at 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 33 

drill. Lieutenant Brightly was in com- 
mand of our platoon. I was n’t able to 
do the wheelings properly; it was n’t my 
fault, either. But Brightly insulted me, 
and called me an idiot ; and he was n’t 
satisfied with that, but he rushed at me 
and struck me a blow with his sword. 
To-night, in the drill-hall, I asked him 
why he did it. He answered me imperti- 
nently, and I called him a bully. Then 
he struck me, and the fight began. You 
came in in time to see the end of it.” 

“ If you had a grievance against Lieuten- 
ant Brightly, why did you not report it at 
headquarters, that an examination might 
have been made and justice done ? Why 
did you take the matter into your own 
hands ? ” 

“ Well, I — I thought I had a right to. 
Brede told me I had a right to, Captain 
Brede. He said an officer was no better 
than a private out of ranks. He said 
I ought to thrash Brightly for what he 
had done.” 

A look of surprise and pain came upon 
Colonel Silsbee’s face, — of surprise, that 
3 


34 THE riverpark rebellion. 

Belcher should thus try to lay the blame of 
his conduct on another ; of pain, that the 
ranking cadet-officer in his school should 
have given such advice. 

“ Captain Brede was greatly mistaken,” 
he said quietly. “ Lieutenant Brightly, 
let us hear your account of this affair.” 

“ Belcher has given a pretty correct ver- 
sion of it,” responded Brightly, “ except 
that of course he has colored the facts to 
make in his favor. I have nothing further 
to say.” 

“ Very well,” said Colonel Silsbee. “ I 
still see no excuse for either of you. Bel- 
cher, you may go. Brightly, you will 
remain for a moment.” 

When the door had closed behind Bel- 
cher, the principal motioned the other lad 
to a chair. 

“ Brightly,” he said, and there was kind- 
ness in his face and voice, “ I have had it 
in mind for some time to have a little talk 
with you, and the. occurrence of to-night 
seems now to have made it a necessity. 
You have not, of late, been keeping up to 
your usual standard in any department; 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 35 

your manner also has been indicative of 
dissatisfaction and carelessness. I am 
sorry for this, because I had 4 grown ac- 
customed to thinking of you as one of 
my first boys. Where does the fault lie, 
Brightly? Is it with us, or is it with 
you ? ” 

The lad hesitated a moment before re- 
plying. Finally he said, “ I did n’t think 
my standing and conduct here were ap- 
preciated. I tried to do very well, but it 
seemed to me that my efforts met with 
punishment rather than with reward. Of 
course that discouraged me, and lately I 
have n’t tried very hard to keep up.” 

“ Do you wish me to understand that 
you were disappointed in the rank as- 
signed to you in the battalion ? ” 

“ Well, I thought I deserved to rank 
higher than first lieutenant.” 

“ I see. I can understand your feeling. 
But if a mistake was made, the mistake 
and the fault were ours, not yours. More- 
over, there was no slight put upon you. 
You were given a very honorable position ; 
it was your duty as a soldier to acquiesce 


3 6 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

in our judgment, and to accept the situa- 
tion without question. To give you my 
reasons for making the appointments that 
I did, while you are in your present state 
of mind, would be subversive of discipline. 

“ I regret this affair of to-night more 
than you do, — very much more. I should 
be glad to relieve you of its consequences 
if it were possible, not only for your own 
sake, but for your mother’s as well ; but it 
is not possible ; my duty to you and to the 
school forbids it. 

“ I shall be obliged to suspend you from 
your office for a time; not long, I hope. 
It is my wish, also, that your mother may 
not learn of your disgrace until she can be 
informed also of your reformation and 
restoration.” 

“ I should prefer that myself. I think 
her feelings have been already sufficiently 
hurt in learning that I was not considered 
worthy of the promotion to which she be- 
lieved, with me, that I was entitled.” 

There was no repentance manifest in 
Brightly’s voice ; the spirit indicated by it 
was still unyielding. 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 37 

Colonel Silsbee looked up sharply at 
the boy. “ Has your mother made a com- 
plaint to you on account of the appoint- 
ment ? ” he asked. 

“ N — no, I can’t say that she has. I 
don’t think she would do me an injustice 
like that.” 

The emphasis was too plain to be mis- 
understood. The stern look came back 
into the principal’s face. 

“You may go now,” he said. “And 
you may consider yourself suspended from 
office until such time as an order to that 
effect shall be published.” 

Brightly bowed, and left the room some- 
what haughtily. His punishment was to be 
greater than he had anticipated. He had 
expected to receive discredit marks enough 
to cut deeply into his standing in deport- 
ment; but he had not thought that he 
should be reduced to the ranks, even for a 
short time. He felt that his sentence was 
unnecessarily severe; that it was unjust 
and uncalled for. It bruised his pride, it 
awakened animosity in his mind, and 
roused rebellion in his heart. 


38 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

It was not long after Brightly had taken 
leave of the principal that Brede was also 
summoned to the office. He arose, waiked 
across the schoolroom with his accustomed 
swagger, and passed in through the office- 
door with the usual supercilious smile upon 
his lips. The entire school wondered what 
he had been summoned for, but only Bel- 
cher and Brightly guessed aright. They 
knew instinctively that his visit had to 
do with Belcher’s awkward excuse for his 
own fault. 

When Brede returned to the school- 
room some fifteen minutes later, he had 
lost something of his swagger ; the curl on 
his lips was less pronounced, and his face 
was more than usually pale. Every one 
who saw him knew that his interview with 
Colonel Silsbee had not been a pleasant 
one. 

Moreover, from that night on he ignored 
both Brightly and Belcher ; the men in the 
ranks noticed that he grew more quick- 
tempered and morose; the principal and 
teachers in the school found that he be- 
came less careful of his standing. 


CHANGING THE RECORD . 


39 


On the evening following the fight be- 
tween Brightly and Belcher the following 
order was published at retreat : — 

Headquarters, Riverpark Academx. 

April 30, 186- 
SPECIAL ORDER, NO. 15. 

Paragraph I . — Cadet Lieutenant Horace E. Bright- 
ly, for conduct unbecoming an officer, is hereby sus- 
pended from the office of first lieutenant and adjutant 
of the battalion, for a period of two weeks, the suspen- 
sion to date from the 29th inst. 

Paragraph II. — Sergeant Major J. R. Finkelton 
will act as adjutant of the battalion during the period 
of Lieutenant Brightly’s suspension, and all papers per- 
taining to said office of adjutant will be turned over to 
him at once. 

By order of the Principal, 

Col. Jonas Silsbee. 

Brightly promptly gave to the acting 
adjutant all papers pertaining to the office, 
which were principally tables showing the 
merits and demerits credited to each stu- 
dent in the line of conduct. 

The system of marking deportment at 
Riverpark was, in many respects, an ex- 
cellent one. Every evening, at retreat, 
one of the older cadets was appointed to 


40 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

act as officer of the day for the following 
I twenty-four hours. It was his duty to 
make entry in the “ officer of the day’s 
book ” of such offences as were reported 
to him by the principal, the teachers, or 
the cadet-officers, and of such also as came 
under his own notice in the schoolroom, 
where he occupied a position at the desk 
throughout the day. 

On Friday evenings it was the duty of 
the adjutant to go, attended by a clerk, to 
the office of the principal, and while the 
clerk read from the book the reports of 
offences, the principal would assign the 
number of demerit marks to each, and the 
adjutant would record them on his list 
opposite the name of each offender. 

He also kept a list of merit marks, a 
certain number of which cancelled a cer- 
tain greater number of demerit marks. If 
the excess of demerit marks reached a 
certain amount, it made the offender a 
delinquent for a day ; a certain greater 
amount extended the term of his delin- 
quency to two days, three days, a week, 
and so on. 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 


41 


The balance against some of the more 
careless and mischievous boys was always 
so large as to put them on what was 
known as perpetual delinquency. Of this 
last class “ Plumpy,” as the fat boy was 
affectionately called by his companions* 
was a conspicuous and shining example. 

A delinquent was not allowed to leave 
the grounds under any pretext. Besides 
that, he was confined to the schoolroom 
during the hour or two of every afternoon 
when the other boys were at leisure, at 
play, walking in the country, boating on 
the river, or visiting the town. This con- 
finement came especially hard on Saturday 
afternoons, when the hours of permitted 
absence extended from two to six o’clock, 
and there was a general exodus from the 
school of all but the unhappy delinquents. 

It was the duty of the adjutant to keep 
these deportment lists and records in his 
possession, and to make up from them 
the tables of conduct that entered into the 
term reports and determined each student’s 
standing. 

The three students who, at the close of 


42 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


each year, bore the highest rank in studies 
and deportment formed the honor grade, 
and each of them was entitled to wear the 
honor-grade chevron. 

It was not easy at first for Finkelton to 
comprehend this somewhat complicated 
method of keeping the records, and he 
asked Brightly one day to come up and 
explain it to him. Brightly replied, some- 
what abruptly, that he believed he had 
fulfilled his entire duty when he turned 
the papers over, and that he knew of no 
reason why he should spend his time in 
the labors of an office from which he 
derived neither profit nor honor. 

But the next day his better nature came 
to the rescue, and he went up to Finkelton’s 
room to acknowledge his fault, and to 
offer assistance. 

“ I was too bearish yesterday,” he ex- 
plained. “ I did n’t think what a mean 
way it was to speak till afterward. I ’ll 
show you anything you want to know 
about the records, and be glad to.” 

Finkelton received him rather coldly. 

“ I have n’t the lists here now,” he said. 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 


43 


“ Captain Brede came and got them this 
morning to figure out his company’s stand- 
ing as against Harpies. Besides, I won’t 
need your assistance; I got all the infor- 
mation I wanted from another source.” 

Brightly was surprised and chilled by 
Finkelton’s manner toward him. They 
had been very good friends. But after a 
moment’s thought, he knew that he mer- 
ited the implied reproach ; and without 
another word he turned and went away. 
Ten minutes later Brede came into Fink- 
elton’s room, bringing the adjutant’s papers 
with him. 

“ I ’ve brought back the lists, Fink,” he 
said, “ and here ’s a curious thing in this 
one that I want to show you.” 

He spread out on the table the general 
record and pointed to Brightly’s name 
on it. 

“ Do you see,” he continued, “ that some 
one has scratched out a 25 in the balance 
opposite that name and left it a 5 ? ” 

“That’s so,” replied Finkelton, scruti- 
nizing the paper closely. “ That certainly 
has been a 25. I did n’t notice it before. 


44 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


Do you suppose Brightly has done a thing 
like this ? ” 

“ Well, a man ’ll do a good deal to save 
an honor-grade chevron. Twenty -five 
would have lost it for him, five will let him 
make it yet. See ? ” 

“ Yes, but I can’t quite believe that of 
Bright. Maybe five is correct after all.” 

“ If it is, what was the use of mutilating 
the weekly lists? You look at them and 
you ’ll see that they ’re changed too. I 
tell you I believe he ’s altered them him- 
self. The colonel did n’t cut him in stand- 
ing when he suspended him, and the fel- 
low wants to take home a big report to 
show to his mother, and make her think 
he ’s been at the head of the heap all the 
time.” 

Finkelton was rummaging among the 
weekly lists. 

“ Don’t you think,” continued Brede, 
“ that you ’d better call Colonel Silsbee’s 
attention to the matter, anyway?” 

“Well, I might,” responded Finkelton, 
slowly ; “ but I don’t know that it ’s my 
duty to, and maybe — ” He paused for a 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 


45 


moment, recalling the somewhat strained 
relations existing at present between him 
and Brightly ; then he added : “ I ve no 
objection to doing it, though. I believe I 
owe him no favors.” 

“Just so,” assented Brede. “I think 
such a rascally and clumsy trick ought to 
be exposed. You might do it to-night 
when you go in to the office to make up 
the reports. I ’ll go in with you as clerk 
if you want me to, and then I can explain 
how I came to detect the fraud. See ? ” 

Finkelton nodded. He had entered 
unsuspectingly into a cruel plot laid by an 
unscrupulous schemer. 

Ten minutes later, when Brede left the 
room, his eyes had a wicked gleam in 
them, and his thin lips were curled in 
pleasant contemplation of satisfying re- 
venge. He himself had erased the figures. 
He had been guilty not only of a mean 
and cowardly act, but of a criminal one 
as well. Yet conscience did not smite 
him, nor fear of discovery cause him to 
hesitate. 

Finkelton carried out to the letter the 


4 6 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

programme laid down for him by Brede. 
He took the captain into the office with 
him that evening to assist in making up 
the weekly report. At an opportune mo- 
ment Colonel Silsbee’s attention was called 
to the erased and substituted figures oppo- 
site Brightly’s name and Brede very glibly 
related the story of his discovery. 

Colonel Silsbee was much surprised 
and perplexed. He could not believe 
that Brightly had deliberately falsified 
the record. The lad had always been 
scrupulously honest. He questioned Brede 
and Finkelton closely, but they gave him 
no further information. Finally he said, — 

“ Brightly shall not be condemned with- 
out a hearing. Whatever his faults may 
have been of late, I cannot credit the fact 
that he has been guilty of so gross a mis- 
demeanor as these papers would seem to 
indicate. We will call him in and hear 
what he has to say.” 

The school was gathered in evening 
session, and unusual quiet rested on the 
assembly, when Colonel Silsbee appeared 
at the door of his office and summoned 


CHANGING THE RECORD. 47 

Brightly. The suspended officer laid aside 
his book, and walked up the aisle and 
across the open space by the desk with a 
smile on his face. 

He had quite expected to be called. He 
had felt sure that Finkelton would not be 
capable of making up the reports. Now 
it had proved so. They were in a snarl, 
and needed him to assist them in the 
unravelling. 

The idea seemed to please him greatly. 
He closed the office-door behind him and 
advanced to the table at which the princi- 
pal and the two cadets were sitting. His 
first glance revealed to him that some- 
thing more important and more serious 
than the disentangling of reports had oc- 
casioned his presence. 

Colonel Silsbee was the first to speak. 

“ Brightly,” he said, “ my attention has 
been called to the fact that erasures have 
been made opposite to your name in the 
reports which have, until recently, been in 
your possession. It is apparent that large 
balances on the demerit side have been 
changed to small ones in your favor. I 


48 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


do not ask for an explanation from you, as 
that would seem to prejudge you. I only 
ask whether the balance as it now stands 
on the general roll is the true one. Your 
simple assertion as a gentleman and a 
soldier will decide the matter to my satis- 
faction. You may examine the papers.” 


CHAPTER III. 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 

Brightly was speechless. 

He looked from one to the other of 
the persons present in unfeigned astonish- 
ment. Beginning to recover his presence 
of mind, he took up the papers and exam- 
ined them. Surely enough, there was the 
erasure, and there the substitution. The 
work had not been neatly done, either. 
The original figures were still discernible. 

He laid down the lists, more per- 
plexed than ever. He was sure he had 
not made the alterations himself, and he 
could not understand why any one else 
should have made them, — especially why 
they should have been made in his favor. 
Glancing around again on the occupants 
of the room, he noticed that Colonel 
Silsbee and Finkelton were looking stead- 
fastly at him, but that Brede sat with his 
eyes turned away. 


4 


50 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

In the next moment the explanation was 
suggested to Brightly’s mind. He knew 
that Brede had handled the reports that 
day ; he knew that Brede would go any 
length to injure him. The plot, its con- 
ception, its object, its fulfilment, were as 
plain to him now as sunlight. 

A sudden hatred flared up in his heart 
against the author of so cowardly a scheme, 
— such a hatred as impels the hand of the 
assassin. Hot words came to his lips ; an 
indignant denial was on his tongue, a 
passionate charging of malice and crime 
against his implacable enemy. 

But in the midst of his wrath he took 
counsel of his judgment, and checked the 
utterance. What would Brede care for his 
anger or his arraignment ? He would have 
anticipated that. He would only curl his 
lips more scornfully than usual, and invite 
proof of the accusation. That would not 
do. 

Suddenly a new thought flashed into 
Brightly’s mind. It was the conception 
of a scheme completely to checkmate his 
enemy, — a scheme so bold and novel and 



“These figures are correct. That is my true standing.” 

Page 51. 
























































AN IMPERTINENT PETITION 51 

unprincipled that it swept conscience like 
a feather before it, and impetuously floated 
its lie to the lad’s lips. 

For one moment he hesitated ; then he 
placed his finger on the altered list, and 
said : “ These figures are correct. That is 
my true standing.” 

Brede turned in his chair and started to 
his feet, gazing upon the speaker incredu- 
lously. The lie was so unexpected, so 
deliberate, so audacious, that it staggered 
him. 

“ Why ! ” he exclaimed impulsively, “ I 
— ” Another word would have betrayed 
him hopelessly. He saw his mistake in 
time, checked himself, and dropped into 
his chair in red-faced confusion. 

Colonel Silsbee waved his hand toward 
the door. 

“ That is all, Brightly,” he said. “ The 
figures will stand as they are. You are 
excused.” 

Brightly bowed, left the office, and re- 
turned to his place in the schoolroom. A 
few minutes later Brede came out also. 
His countenance had greatly changed. 


52 THE RIVE RP ARK REBELLION. 

Instead of the scornful smile of self-satis- 
faction, his face bore marks of humiliation 
and of bitter disappointment. He shot one 
angry glance at the enemy who had out- 
witted him, and passed to his seat. But 
his books were nothing to him ; he had 
been baffled, crushed, out-Heroded. He 
smarted and writhed with a sense of 
ignominious defeat. 

The night passed and the morning came, 
and the days went by ; but this feeling 
remained with him, — he could not shake 
it off. 

To know that his intended victim had 
been guilty of an offence so enormous 
that its mere disclosure would bring down 
upon the offender punishment and per- 
manent disgrace, and yet to be powerless, 
to see this unblushing liar go scot-free 
from the penalty of a crime which he 
did not dare to bring to light, hurt him, 
galled him, exasperated' him almost be- 
yond endurance. 

It made him careless at drill, neglect- 
ful of his studies, violent in temper. 
He spoke lightly of rules ; he sought the 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 


53 


society of boisterous fellows ; he frater- 
nized with the ruder and disorderly ele- 
ment. His demoralization was so marked 
and rapid that it became the talk of the 
school. 

He never spoke to Brightly ; he tried to 
ignore him ; but whenever these two met 
in those days, whether in the drill-hall, the 
classroom, or the corridor, each felt that 
the other knew to a certainty the guilt of 
both. 

And Brede, measuring his enemy’s feel- 
ing by his own, had no conception of the 
true state of Brightly ’s mind. 

Had he known what this young fellow 
suffered, he might have asked no greater 
revenge. The lie was scarcely cold on 
the lad’s lips before he regretted having 
spoken it. Within ten minutes from the 
time he uttered it he would have given 
much to be able to recall it ; but that was 
clearly impossible. He felt that it would 
only make the matter so much the worse. 

His exultation at Brede’s discomfiture 
was short-lived. After that night it never 
gave him a moment’s pleasure. He sought 


54 THE river park rebellion 

to drown the memory of it in idle thought, 
in boisterous fun, in hot discussion with 
his fellows ; but all expedients were vain. 
It was a veritable Banquo’s ghost. He 
lost strength, hope, courage, ambition. 
Before the utterance of that fatal falsehood 
he had not thought but that he should 
soon regain his office, his honor, and his 
old position in the school. Now he did 
not even wish to do so. 

But of Brede he had scarcely a thought 
now, except the occasional flashing up of 
that old hatred and disgust in his heart. 
They were little more to each other than 
strangers. 

Once they met and exchanged words. 
It was in the drill-hall, while they were 
waiting for supper. There was a small 
boy at the school who was called by his 
companions “ Apache,” or, more briefly, 
“ Patchy.” He had come there from an 
army post in the far West, where his 
father, a government officer, was stationed ; 
and it had pleased his fellows to pretend 
that they supposed him to belong to the 
Apache tribe of Indians. 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 


55 


Brede was annoying this boy, who liked 
play well enough so long as it was not too 
boisterous, but who felt that he was being 
handled a little too roughly now, and who 
called, still half in fun, to Brightly, who was 
passing at the time, to come to his aid. 

Brede had not intended to hurt the lad, 
and would not have done so; but this 
appeal to his enemy angered him, and he 
gave the child’s arm a twist that caused 
the little fellow to cry out with a pain not 
now assumed. 

Brightly had stopped for a moment, un- 
certain whether to respond ; but when the 
cry came, he advanced a step toward the 
two, and said to Brede, “ Let the boy 
alone.” 

The captain loosed his hold of Patchy, 
who immediately made his escape, and 
thrusting his hands in his pockets, stared 
for a moment in feigned contempt at his 
adversary. 

“ I don’t take orders from disgraced 
officers ! ” he said. 

Brightly answered, trying to be calm, 
“ A person who has been guilty of forging 


5 6 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

records should n’t talk to others about 
disgrace.” 

Brede’s face grew white with passion. 
“Nor do I take advice from common 
and contemptible liars,” he responded 
scornfully. 

It is uncertain what would have been 
said or done next, had not Harple seized 
Brightly ’s arm and hurried him away. He 
had chanced to notice the two boys in 
conversation, had hurried across the hall 
in time to hear the last words, and, acting 
on the urgent necessity of the moment, 
now rescued his friend from further trou- 
ble by removing him from the scene. 

Harple had made it his business during 
these days to be with or near his chum as 
much as possible. He felt somehow that 
Brightly was no longer responsible for his 
own conduct, and that some one should be 
on hand to keep him from bringing further 
disgrace upon himself. In this case, at 
least, his vigilance had been amply re- 
warded. He shuddered to think what the 
result would have been if the quarrel with 
Brede had gone on. 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 57 

But Harple suffered much by reason of 
his anxiety for his friend. It pained him 
deeply to see Brightly sinking into such a 
deplorable state ; he was beginning to feel 
that he was powerless to save him. He 
had exhausted his powers of logic, of 
entreaty, even of abuse. He could do 
nothing now except to stand by and ex- 
tend such aid and comfort as he might. 
Brightly was still as friendly with him and 
apparently as fond of him as of old ; but he 
would not listen to reproof or advice. 

Harple watched with alarm the demor- 
alization also of Brede. He felt and knew 
that there were strong and co-operating 
influences at work on these two long-time 
rivals and enemies that were dragging 
them both, surely and rapidly, to degra- 
dation ; but what these influences were he 
could not even guess. 

Almost every movement made by either 
was an act of retrogression. Perhaps the 
change was more marked in respect to the 
society they chose than in any other way. 
Boys with whom Brightly had had noth- 
ing in common in the better days, and 


58 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

whom Brede had utterly disdained, ap- 
peared now to be the friends of both. 

Colonel Silsbee’s hope that the deepen- 
ing spring-time would put to rest the spirit 
of unquietness and discontent among his 
boys was not realized. There was neglect 
of lessons ; there were breaches of military 
discipline, infractions of academy rules, 
private quarrels, boisterous conduct. 

A half-dozen of the older boys had been 
discovered one day in a secluded nook 
smoking cigars and pipes, and had been 
promptly disciplined. There had been an 
incipient riot in the upper dormitory at 
night after taps, the participants in which 
had been severely punished. Half the 
school was on delinquency, and of half that 
number the delinquency was perpetual. 

The principal and teachers were quite 
at a loss what course to pursue. One 
thing only seemed feasible, and that was 
to draw the lines with still greater strict- 
ness, and to compel the utmost obedience 
by the severest discipline. 

Thus matters stood at the close of a 
beautiful May day. It was one of those 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 59 

languid, luxuriant days on which every 
lover of Nature longs to be in the woods 
and fields, breathing without stint air 
sweetened by the touch of bursting buds 
and growing leaves and springing grass. 

It was after supper and before the time 
for the evening session. The boys were 
strolling about the grounds, playing quiet 
games, or lounging on the lawn. A group 
of them, however, had gathered near the 
eastern porch of the building, and were 
shouting and singing boisterously. Some 
one had composed a few doggerel verses 
containing little of either rhyme or metre, 
and had entitled them “ The Noble Army 
of Delinquents.” It was the chorus of this 
song that the members of the little group 
were shouting out with rude vigor. They 
tired of this finally, and then one, Fryant, 
spoke up. 

“ What we want and need, fellows,” he 
said, “ is a holiday. It ’s a shame for Old 
Sil to put us on delinquency and keep us 
shut up here such a day as this.” 

“True enough!” responded Belcher. 
“ Last year we had a holiday long before 


6o 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


this time. The old man ’s trying to spite 
us because we happen to belong to the 
noble army of delinquents. That ’s what ’s 
the matter now, and I, for one, don’t 
propose — ” 

“ Let ’s petition him to go to-morrow,” 
broke in a third speaker. “ The woods 
are splendid now; Beach and Valentine 
were over the river yesterday, and they 
said so.” 

“Yes, let’s petition him!” exclaimed 
two or three at once. 

Some one threw up his cap and cried 
out, “ A holiday ! holiday ! ” 

In a moment others took up the cry, 
and sent it out through the twilight. 
Boys, separately and in groups, came hur- 
rying toward the little party, attracted by 
the unusual sound. When they heard 
what the proposition was, they were mostly 
in favor of it. 

It had been the custom of Colonel 
Silsbee to give his boys a holiday every 
spring. They usually went in a body to 
the groves across the river, taking lun- 
cheon with them, and spending the day in 




AN IMPERTINENT PETITION 


6 1 


rowing, in athletic games, or in roaming 
about the woods. 

Such a day could not fail to have charms 
for any boy ; but for these delinquent lads, 
who were not allowed to leave the grounds, 
save as they were marched discreetly to 
church on Sunday mornings and evenings, 
the very thought of pleasure like this was 
intoxicating. 

The holiday idea was infectious ; it 
spread like a swift contagion. Every- 
body was shouting for it now. 

Some one turned to Brightly, saying, 
“ Here, Bright, you draw the petition ; you 
can do it.” 

“Yes,” cried some one else, “let Bright 
draw it ; he ’s literary ; he can put it in 
better shape than any other fellow in 
school.” 

Now Brightly was not averse to com- 
pliments; and in no way was his vanity 
more easily flattered than by favorable 
comment on his literary ability, which, 
indeed, was not slight. 

Moreover, he felt a certain grim pleas- 
ure in the fact that although he had been 


62 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


suspended and disgraced by the authori- 
ties, yet when anything was to be done 
requiring peculiar mental skill and art, he 
was unanimously selected by the boys of 
the school to do it. So, followed by a 
score or more of them, he led the way to 
the vacant schoolroom, intent on the ac- 
complishment of their desires, thoughtless 
and careless of what the result might be 
to himself. 

Hastily scribbling what he considered a 
good form for a petition, he read it to the 
boys. 

“ ’T aint strong enough,” said one. 

“We don’t want so much beggarly hu- 
mility in it,” said another. “We ’ve got a 
right to a holiday, and we ’d best let him 
know ’t we know it.” 

“ Put it to him fair and square, Bright,” 
said Fryant. “ There ’s no use mincing- 
matters ; he ’s bearing down heavy on us, 
and we ’ve got to meet him on his own 
ground.” 

Thus conjured, Brightly made another 
effort, this time apparently with better 
success; for when he read what he had 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 63 

written, they all cried, “ Good ! that ’s good! 
now copy it ! ’ 

Six months before he would never have 
thought of writing such a paper at the 
dictation of this lawless crowd ; but now, 
with jealousy stinging him, with con- 
science torturing him, with disgrace hang- 
ing over him, he had only his self-respect 
to fall back upon, — and that, alas! was 
already following in the wake of hope and 
ambition, both of which had left him 
weeks ago. 

When the petition was copied, it read 
as follows: — 

To Col. Jonas Silsbee, 

Principal of Riverpark Academy. 

The petition of the undersigned cadets and students 
of Riverpark respectfully represents : 

That, whereas it has been the custom yearly to de- 
vote one day of the spring season to a whole holiday 
for the entire school, with games, lunches, etc., in the 
groves across the river, and whereas the time has fully 
come when such holiday should be enjoyed 

Now, therefore, we, the undersigned, designate to- 
morrow, the tenth day of May, as the day of our 
choice for said holiday ; and we herewith make known 
our proposition for celebrating the same, to the end 


64 THE riverpark rebellion. 

that the proper arrangements may be duly made and 
the programme carried out according to the usual 
custom. (Signed) 

At the moment when the paper was 
ready for signature, Brede entered the 
room. 

“Here!” cried a dozen boys at once. 
“ Brede, captain ! sign the petition ! ” 

“ What for ? ” asked Brede, surlily. 

“A holiday! We’re going to have a 
holiday ; sign the petish ! ” 

The captain took the paper and read it. 

“ Have n’t you put it pretty strong ? ” 
he asked. 

“ It ’s got to be strong,” was the reply, 
“ or we won’t get the holiday.” 

Plumpy, the fat boy, waddled hastily 
toward the group, crying out in his falsetto 
voice : “ A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom 
for a mule ! ” 

“ Plumpy wants a mule ! ” shouted 
Patchy, hilariously. “ What you want a 
mule for, Plumpy ? ” 

“To cross the raging Helles-py-ont and 
picnic in the groves of doodle dell,” re- 
sponded Plumpy, in mock heroics. 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 65 

“ Oh, shut up ! ” cried some one, but 
Plumpy continued : “ Why, then, without 
a mule, I ’ll swim the raging flood me sel- 
luf to bask — ” 

“ Oh, shut up ! shut up ! ” sounded a 
chorus of voices. “ Put him out ! Sit 
on him ! ” 

This last suggestion was promptly acted 
on ; a half-dozen lads pounced on the un- 
fortunate fat boy, dragged him to the floor, 
rolled him over and over like a bulging 
barrel, and smothered his squeals by pla- 
cing their combined weight on his elastic 
body. But they did not hurt him. In- 
deed, it seemed almost impossible by any 
course of treatment to give Plumpy more 
than the suggestion of physical pain. 

Brede was still scanning the petition. 

“ Oh, come, captain ! ” said some one at 
his elbow, “ sign the petition. If you 
don’t sign it we won’t stand a ghost of a 
show.” 

“ And if you do,” continued another, 
“we’ll have a dead sure thing.” 

Brede’s vanity was flattered. 

“ Well, I don’t care,” he said sharply. 

5 


66 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


“What's the use? If a fellow gets into 
trouble, all he s got to do is to lie out of 
it, and Silsbee ’ll coddle him back to virtue. 
There ’s no use trying to be decent here 
any more. Where ’s your pen ? ” 

The pen was given to him, and he signed 
his name. His was the first signature to 
the petition. Then Harple was sought ; 
but he could not be found, and there was 
no time to be lost, so others affixed their 
signatures without regard to the order in 
which they came. 

Brightly signed the paper, of course. He 
could do no less after having drawn it. 
Not that he cared about the holiday; but 
he had become too weak and indifferent to 
resist any pressure, or to count the cost of 
any action. 

The evening session interfered with a 
further circulation of the petition ; but be- 
fore tattoo was sounded there was another 
opportunity to sign it, and at reveille on 
the following morning it was again on 
its rounds. 

At inspection a committee of two was 
appointed to present it to the principal. 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. 6y 

These two, Robinson and Miller, had been 
selected on account of their popularity and 
their high standing ; one of them, indeed, 
was an honor-grade man. 

They selected the time immediately after 
breakfast to approach Colonel Silsbee with 
the petition. He was in his office, and they 
went there. They were gone but a few mo- 
ments. When they came out, they were 
surrounded by a group of eager questioners. 

“ What did he say ? ” “ Are we going ? ” 
“ Did he read it ? ” They were all asking 
at once. 

“ Keep still a minute,” said Robinson, 
“ and I ’ll tell you. He took the paper 
and just glanced at it, and then he folded it 
up again. He said he ’d take the matter 
into consideration, and whatever he con- 
ceived to be for the best interests of the 
school, that he ’d do. He said he ’d let us 
know at the opening of the session. Now 
that ’s as near as I can remember it. Is n’t 
that about what he said, Miller?” 

“Just about. It’s as close as you can 
get to it, anyway. I tell you what, boys, 
he looked mighty favorable.” 


68 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION . 


“ Do you think we ’ 11 get it, honest ? ” 
asked an eager bystander. 

“Yes,” replied Miller, “I do.” 

“ Hurrah for the holiday ! ” shouted an 
enthusiastic delinquent. “ We re going 
to get the holiday ! hurrah ! ” 

The good news spread, and as it passed 
from lip to lip, the holiday was spoken of 
as an assured fact. Indeed, many of the 
boys hastened to their rooms to make 
preparations for going. 

As the long file wound up into the 
schoolroom at the usual hour for the 
morning session, the flow of good feeling 
was manifested by so much good-natured 
mischief that the officers found it difficult 
to keep order in the ranks. 

The morning was beautiful. Nature was 
propitious; there was not a cloud to be 
discovered either in the blue sky or on 
the bright hopes of the students. Every- 
body was jubilant. Even Brightly had 
awakened to an unusual degree of en- 
thusiasm, and Brede was smiling and 
swaggering with much of the old-time 
manner. 


AN IMPERTINENT PETITION. ' 69 


Colonel Silsbee entered the room, read 
the Scripture lesson as usual, and offered 
the morning prayer. Then, seating him- 
self again in his chair, he looked down for 
a moment on the bright and expectant 
faces before him. In that look, kindly 
but stern, his pupils discovered the first 
cloud upon the horizon of their hopes. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 

Colonel Silsbee’s manner was deliber- 
ate, and his voice was very firm as he 
began to speak. 

“ I promised your committee,” he said, 
“ to give you my decision at this time in 
the matter of your proposed holiday. I 
will say at the outset, that your request, 
if it may be considered a request, cannot 
be granted. Perhaps I should leave the 
matter there, and refrain from giving you 
the reasons for my decision ; but this is 
an unusual case, and I will take the un- 
usual course of explaining my action. 

“ There are several good reasons for my 
decision to deny what you ask. In the 
first place, it would have been impossible 
to make the proper arrangements between 
the time your petition was handed to me 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. yj 

and the time at which it would have been 
necessary to start. Moreover, I am in- 
formed that the woods are still too damp 
to make it quite safe for you to spend a 
whole day there. Some of you are quite 
delicate in health, and I should not be 
willing to allow you thus to expose 
yourselves. 

“ These reasons would be sufficient on 
which to base a refusal of your demand if 
there were no others ; but there are others, 
and they are such as to make a refusal 
necessary simply as a matter of school 
discipline. 

“ I cannot — no teacher could — receive 
with favor a paper couched in such lan- 
guage as is the one which you have pre- 
sented to me this morning. A holiday 
in this school is not a matter of right, but 
of grace. That must be plainly under- 
stood. Petitions must be so worded as 
to imply authority in the principal ; if 
they are not, they certainly will not be 
granted ; they will not even be considered. 
More than that, the presentation hereafter 
of such a petition as the one of this morn- 


72 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


ing will be regarded not only as a breach 
of courtesy, but of discipline, and will be 
acted upon accordingly. 

“ I will take this opportunity to add 
something more. There has been for 
some weeks a spirit of disorder prevalent 
among you, which must be effectually 
quelled before any favors can be shown 
to the school as a whole. We have been 
very patient with you, and have tried to 
temper justice with mercy. Now I desire 
to give you fair notice that I propose to 
be master here, and that the rules of this 
school, and the orders of my teachers and 
officers, must be obeyed to the letter. If 
any boy chooses to dispute this point 
practically, we shall make it convenient 
to do without him at Riverpark. 

“ But while desiring and intending to 
maintain strict discipline in the school, I 
desire to be not only fair and just, but 
magnanimous ; and when I discover a bet- 
ter feeling on your part, and an honest 
effort to live up to your duties as gentle- 
men and soldiers, I shall most assuredly 
meet you more than half way. 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 73 

“ Let this be made manifest by your 
conduct, and it will not be necessary for 
you to present petitions; it will be my 
pleasure to anticipate your reasonable de- 
sires for enjoyment, and to indulge them 
without the asking. 

“ Now you understand me. I regret 
that in thus speaking to you it is neces- 
sary for me to address the school as a 
whole. There are manly boys here who 
deserve only words of commendation. 
They are the more deserving, because 
they have maintained a high standing 
in the midst of adverse influences. I take 
this opportunity to thank them publicly. 

“ Officer of the day, you may call the 
classes.” 

The last words were addressed to the 
cadet-official who sat at the desk. Then 
Colonel Silsbee descended from the plat- 
form, crossed the room, and entered his 
office. 

There was no opportunity for the peti- 
tioners to take counsel together concern- 
ing the refusal of their petition until the 
recess for luncheon at twelve o’clock. 


74 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


The sandwiches were brought up, as usual, 
in a huge tray, and placed on the desk, 
and each boy took one as he passed by 
in the march from the schoolroom. A 
minute later, in the drill-hall, the petition- 
ers gathered in excited groups, and dis- 
cussed the situation loudly. 

There was general disappointment, and 
not a little ill-feeling; there were even 
some expressions of downright anger. 

A few of the boys boldly declared their 
determination to take a holiday at the first 
opportunity, with or without leave ; but 
for the greater number, the determined 
words and earnest manner of Colonel Sils- 
bee had acted as a temporary check to the 
formation of projects involving any breach 
of the rules. 

The recess was only fifteen minutes in 
length, and the students were soon all 
back in the schoolroom, where the usual 
order of exercises was carried out ; but no- 
body remembered a day on which all the 
recitations had been so poor, and every- 
body was glad when the afternoon session 
was at an end. 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 7 5 


At two o’clock came dinner. Drill was 
from three to four ; after that the session 
for delinquents, and then an hour’s respite 
before retreat. 

During this interval, a half-dozen of the 
leading spirits of disorder locked them- 
selves in Fryant’s room to discuss plans 
for “getting even with the old man.” It 
seemed to be “ the sense of the meeting ” 
that a holiday should be had, regardless of 
the morning’s refusal. 

The only questions at issue were, how, 
when, and where the project could be car- 
ried out. No one was quite bold enough, 
as yet, to propose that the school as a 
body, or any material part of it, should set 
out for a holiday, purposely and deliber- 
ately, against the will of the principal. 
That would be open rebellion. But as 
the discussion and feeling both waxed 
warmer, the approach to such an end be- 
came more apparent. 

“ He ’s tyrannized over us long enough ! ” 
exclaimed Drake. “If we don’t show him 
what our rights are, an’ take ’em, we ’ll get 
to be nigger slaves before the term ’s done!” 


76 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

“ Talk about our being gentlemen and 
soldiers ! ” protested another, pompously. 
“We are, and more. But when oppres- 
sion grows too severe, even soldiers rebel 
against it, and the civilized world upholds 
them in rebellion. I say go! I say run 
up the black flag ! I say fight, if need be, 
for liberty ! I say — ” 

There came a knock at the door, and 
the impassioned orator lapsed into sudden 
and trembling silence ; but it was only 
one of the delinquents, who had heard of 
the meeting, and desired to participate in 
it. He was allowed to enter. 

Not long afterward another one came, 
and still others, until finally the room was 
full of excited and rebellious boys. The 
latest comer was Plumpy. 

“ Plumpy,” said Fryant, authoritatively, 
“ this is a secret brotherhood, with a well- 
defined object. Do you desire to join the 
mystic fraternity ? ” 

“ If the court knows herself,” answered 
the fat boy, “ she do.” 

“Very well. Let’s initiate him into the 
— the — ” 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 77 

“ Order of the Black Star,” suggested 
some one. 

“Yes, Order of the Black Star. Now, 
John Porcupine Fatness de Montmorency 
Jones, remove all unnecessary clothing 
from above your waist.” 

“ Will you allow me first to make rrly 
will, gentlemen ? ‘ Let but the commons 

hear this testament, which, pardon me, I 
do not mean to — ’ ” 

“No! no!” shouted a half-dozen boys, 
pouncing on him, pulling off his coat and 
vest, and opening wide the bosom of his 
shirt. 

“ Bring forth the ink indelible, and set 
the seal of our most noble order on his 
brawny front.” 

A mucilage-brush was dipped into an 
ink-bottle by some one, and a great rude 
star was hastily daubed on the fat boy’s 
bared and ample breast, in spite of his 
struggles and his squeals. 

The operation served to put new ideas 
into the fertile mind of Drake. 

“ Let ’s have a genuine society,” he said, 
“and have a black star for a badge, and 


7 8 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

every one that belongs to it wear it 
under the lapel of his coat, or inside his 
jacket.” 

The idea was caught up enthusias- 
tically, and in a few moments a dozen 
hands were busy cutting rude stars out of 
paper, daubing them with black ink, and 
pinning them to coats and vests. In the 
midst of this occupation the signal for 
retreat was heard ; and with an under- 
standing that they should hold all matters 
secret, and meet again in the same room 
immediately after supper, the members of 
the new Order hurried away. 

On no one in the school had Colonel 
Silsbee’s address of the morning fallen 
with greater severity than on Brightly. 
The strong denunciation of the language 
of the petition had cut deeply into his sen- 
sibilities. Every boy in the school knew 
that he had drawn the paper; he believed 
that Colonel Silsbee himself knew it. 

He had of late grown partially indif- 
ferent to his suspension and disgrace ; even 
the stings of conscience were becoming 
somewhat dulled ; but now came a thrust 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 79 

at his pride and vanity that not only made 
new, deep wounds, but set the old ones 
bleeding afresh. It roused within him a 
spirit of resentment that he had not felt 
before ; it changed his moodiness into 
reckless obstinacy ; it gave him an excuse 
to take another long leap downward. 

He had descended, by degrees, from his 
lofty height of six months before, one step 
after another, three steps at a time, until, 
with this latest plunge, he found him- 
self down among the common elements, 
among ignoble spirits, mixing with the 
lawless crowd. 

He felt, indeed, the shame, the disgrace, 
the humiliation of it all ; he suffered far 
more than he himself knew. But he had 
allowed this insidious disease so to sap his 
moral strength and weaken his force of 
character, that he had now neither the 
courage nor the will to make the attempt 
to climb back to manhood and self- 
respect. 

The situation had become so mani- 
festly serious that Harple again made the 
attempt, that afternoon, to reason his mis- 


8o 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


guided chum into a different state of 
mind. The good fellow was patient, per- 
severing, tearfully earnest ; but, alas ! he 
was wholly unsuccessful. The demoral- 
ized student was in no mood even to lis- 
ten with respect. He repelled every kind 
advance with sharp impatience. He was 
excited and feverish; he paced the floor 
nervously ; he was fast losing control of 
his own will. 

Harple’s alarm increased rapidly and 
materially. He put on his cap, went 
downstairs, and walked out alone across 
the fields, trying to devise some plan of 
rescue for his friend. He felt that the 
danger was great and immediate. 

Brede was no less annoyed and excited 
about the result of the petition than was 
Brightly himself. His name had been 
the first one signed to it. He felt that 
Colonel Silsbee’s denunciation had been 
aimed directly at him, and it roused an- 
ger and resentment in his breast also. 

Since the night of his visit to Colonel 
Silsbees office, after the fight between 
Brightly and Belcher, his lower nature 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR . 8 1 


had come to the front, and had mani- 
fested itself in a hundred ugly ways ; and 
since the hour when Brightly’s bold lie 
blocked his path to sweet revenge, he had 
made no effort to hold his evil disposition 
in check. Stings of jealousy, hurts of re- 
proof, pangs of disappointment, had so 
clouded and embittered for him the pass- 
ing days, that not even his fondness for 
flattery or pride of position could keep 
him longer above the level toward which 
his natural inclinations were constantly 
drawing him. 

And now, this morning, the last straw 
had fallen ; he could bear the burden of 
respectability no longer. He threw dis- 
cretion and even self-respect to the winds, 
and declared his readiness to take part in 
any rebellious plan for pleasure, no matter 
how desperate or how disorderly. 

So a strange thing happened. When 
the conspirators met in Fryant’s room 
that evening, according to agreement, 
both Brightly and Brede were present 
with them. 

Every boy wondered at that ; every one 
6 


82 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


knew that they were rivals and enemies, 
and had been since the first week they 
were at the school together; every one 
knew that the exalted positions to which 
both had attained were the result, in great 
part, of the ungenerous rivalry between 
them, of the strong determination on the 
part of each to outdo the other for the 
mere sake of outdoing; every one knew 
moreover, that during the last few weeks 
the feeling between them had degenerated 
into downright bitterness and hate. 

Yet here they were, ready to join hands 
with each other and their companions in 
any wild scheme for the upheaval of disci- 
pline and the inauguration of rebellion. 

The door was locked, and the meeting 
began its secret session. The most im* 
portant thing that suggested itself was a 
grip, the fashion of which, after much dis- 
cussion, was decided on. Then a pass- 
word was adopted. Finally, it occurred to 
some one to suggest that the society 
should have officers 

Plumpy spoke up. “ I move,” he said, 
“ that Captain Brede be the Chief High 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 83 

Muck-a-Muck of this Benighted Band of 
Brothers.” 

For once, his words were taken seri- 
ously, and by whispered votes Brede was 
elected chief. 

“ Now,” continued Plumpy, “ I nominate 
Temporary Ex-Lieutenant Brightly for 
Grand Scribbler of the Lone Goose Quill, 
Great Splasher of the Blood-red Seal, 
Most Gorgeous Manipulator of the Gol- 
den Purse, and — ” 

Brightly stepped out from the crowd. 
“ I don’t want your offices,” he said impa- 
tiently. “ I ’m ready to go with you any 
time, anywhere, and do my part; but I 
don’t want your offices.” 

The zeal for electing officers suddenly 
died out, and excited discussion ensued as 
to how and when the object of the organ- 
ization could be best accomplished. 

It was finally agreed that the chairman 
should appoint a committee of five to de- 
cide upon that matter. The rest were to 
hold themselves in readiness to go, at a 
moment’s notice, whenever the committee 
should give the word, and to follow witlv 


84 THE riverpark rebellion. 

out question the lead of the chief. Among 
his five advisers Brede did not appoint 
Brightly. 

The drum, sounding the call for the 
evening session, interrupted the delibera- 
tions of the conspirators ; and, one by one, 
they passed quietly into the hall and down 
the stairs. The short recess preceding tat- 
too was devoted to proselyting, and before 
taps sounded that night, many an ink- 
splashed paper star was pinned in a hid- 
den place on coat or vest. 

In the school at large there was fever- 
ish excitement. Those who were not in 
the secret were puzzled by the general air 
of mystery which prevailed. Those who 
were in the conspiracy gathered in whis- 
pering groups, and discussed the situation. 

Morning came, but the excitement had 
not abated, — indeed, it had grown in inten- 
sity. At the breakfast-table the teachers 
noted the spirit of suppressed turbulence 
which seemed to be in the air, and feared 
trouble. Two of them went to Colonel 
Silsbee as soon as the dining-room was 
clear, and gave expression to their fear. 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 85 

They related various matters which had 
attracted their attention during the pre- 
vious day and evening, and which seemed 
to indicate that serious mischief was 
brewing. 

In the mean time, in the drill-hall, 
down in a corner by the armory, Brede 
was holding a consultation with his 
committee. The discussion was an ani- 
mated one. 

“I say to-day!” exclaimed Fryant, — 
“ now ! There ’s no time like the present ; 
we ’ll never have a better chance.” 

“ But we ’re not ready,” protested an- 
other ; “ we Ve got no plan ; we don’t know 
where we ’re going ! ” 

“ It don’t matter where we go,” insisted 
Drake, — “ anywhere to get out of this place ; 
an’ we don’t want a plan, — that ’ud be too 
much like a regular holiday. It ’s a hun- 
dred times jollier to let things turn up as 
they will, an’ take ’em as they come. I 
say go ! ” 

“ The only way to decide it,” said Brede, 
“ is to vote on it. Whatever a majority of 
us vote to do we ’ll do, and we can’t afford 


86 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


to lose any time about it either. All you 
who want to take a holiday to-day say 
‘Ay’!” 

There was a chorus of ays. There 
was but one dissenting voice in the com- 
mittee, and the owner of that was soon 
won over. 

“Now, let’s have it unanimous,” said 
Fryant; “put the motion again, Brede.” 

The motion was put again, and was car- 
ried with a yell. 

The other students, many of whom 
were gathered in whispering groups, or 
were passing rapidly from one group to 
another, startled by this unusual sound, 
turned toward Brede and his companions 
to learn the cause of it. Fryant broke 
away from the group and started toward 
the middle of the floor, gesticulating 
wildly. 

“ The time has come ! ” he cried. “ Or- 
der of the Black Star, we go to-day! — 
now — ready — get your caps — follow us 
— come on ! ” 

For a moment there was dead silence. 
Every one was too astonished to speak or 


THE ORDER OF THE BLACK STAR. 87 

to move ; the order to go had come with 
such startling suddenness. Then Brede 
made a dash for his cap. Others ran for 
theirs. There was a general movement 
toward the drill-hall door. Talking and 
shouting began again. Some one cried, 
“Show your stars ! ” and in a moment the 
ink-splashed paper stars were displayed 
outside of coats and jackets. Plumpy pro- 
duced one on which he had labored zeal- 
ously the night before, and which covered 
his entire breast 

Outside there was a moment’s halt. 
Brede had turned toward his rash follow- 
ers, many of whom were pale and trem- 
bling with excitement, and cried tragically : 

“ All cowards turn back ! All men and 
soldiers follow me ! ” 

Then, closely surrounded by the lead- 
ing spirits of rebellion, he moved rapidly 
across the drill-ground toward the high 
board fence that enclosed Riverpark on 
the south. The rest followed them like 
frightened sheep. 

Some went, realizing fully the enormity 
of their offence. Others were carried 


88 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


away in the whirl of passion and excite- 
ment; and still others, reckless of results, 
caring nothing for either past or future, 
went without a thought beyond the desire 
to go. 


CHAPTER V. 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 

Brede, Brightly, and the larger boys 
leaped up, caught the top of the fence, 
and swung themselves over lightly, while 
others unable to do this ran along the 
base of it wildly, like frightened animals 
seeking a passage through. 

There was a board broken off at one 
place, and, one at a time, the smaller boys 
began to squeeze through this narrow 
aperture. Plumpy tried to get through 
here, but succeeded only in getting him- 
self wedged tightly in the opening. After 
vigorous efforts his comrades released him, 
making a way again for themselves. 

When they had all passed through, the 
fat boy, fearful of being left behind, found 
a foothold on the broken board, and man- 
aged to climb by it to the top of the fence. 
Here he hung for a moment in ludicrous 


90 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


suspense, sawing the air with his hands, 
kicking lustily with both feet, and shouting 
at the top of his voice ; then, losing his 
imperfect balance, he went toppling to the 
ground on the outside of the enclosure. 

The earth was soft, his body was elastic, 
and he was not even bruised ; but his great 
paper star was ruined beyond hope of re- 
pair. He scrambled hastily to his feet, 
and ran clumsily after his comrades, who 
were gathered again into a single body, 
and were making a devious path across 
the hilly fields. Finally they struck into a 
country cross-road, and turned their faces 
toward the river. 

They hurried along, as if, by their own 
resolution, they had not the whole day be- 
fore them for pleasure. They talked and 
laughed loudly as they went, but the ring 
of sincere enjoyment was not in their 
voices. 

Once they were suddenly alarmed by 
one of their number, who shouted that 
Colonel Silsbee was coming after them 
with a horse and buggy. On looking 
around, they did see a horse and buggy 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 9 1 

approaching them, but the man in the vehi- 
cle was not Colonel Silsbee. He looked 
wonderingly at them as he passed, and 
drove rapidly on. 

After a little time they crossed the tracks 
of the Hudson River Railroad, and kept 
on down to the river. A sloop was lying 
at the dock, taking on a load of sawed 
lumber, and the boys amused themselves 
for a short time running over the little 
vessel, and watching the dock-hands at 
their work. Some one proposed a boat- 
ride on the river ; but this was clearly out 
of the question, as there were but two 
row-boats to be had there, and these would 
not contain half of the party. 

It was finally decided to go up to the 
railroad track and follow it down the river, 
keeping a sharp lookout for anything that 
might turn up in the way of diversion. 

Patchy had lost his cap somewhere, and 
Brightly tied his handkerchief over the 
child’s head to protect him from the hot 
rays of the sun. It gave him a comical 
appearance, and some of the larger boys 
began to make fun of him. The little 


92 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

fellow wanted to take it off ; but Brightly 
turned savagely on the tormentors and 
shut them up, and ordered Patchy sternly 
to keep it on. 

The utter foolishness of the expedition 
was already beginning to impress itself on 
Brightly s mind. Now that the step had 
been taken, the breach made, now that it 
was too late to turn back, he was just com- 
ing to a realization of the position in which 
he had placed himself. 

Moreover, the thought that this little 
boy, the youngest in the school, had been 
led into evil by the example and persua- 
sion of such fellows as he, — fellows old 
enough to be responsible, — preyed upon 
his mind, as he walked silently along over 
the ties. 

He kept Patchy in sight, helping him 
across the short bridges, and holding him 
up against the bank while the trains 
flashed by. Brede went on ahead, talking 
loudly, coarsely at times, telling what he 
should do in case “ Old Sil ” attempted to 
punish him, or any of his fellows. 

By and by they came to a tunnel in the 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 


93 


face of an abrupt hill. The mouth of it 
was very dark, and the small, rectangular 
spot of light which marked the farther 
opening indicated that it was also very 
long. Some of the more foolhardy were 
for pushing on through it ; but the timid 
ones stoutly demurred, and one frightened 
small boy began to cry. Then Brightly 
declared that he should not enter it, nor 
allow any one else to do so, if he could 
prevent him. 

So wiser counsels prevailed, and the 
company retraced their steps till they came 
to a narrow lane at the edge of a piece of 
woods, and they turned up it toward the 
highway; but the unfenced woods along 
this route were so cool and attractive, and 
the forest air was so sweet, that they all 
lay down under the shade of the trees to 
rest. 

Many of the lads were still laboring 
under deep excitement ; but the tendency 
to loud talking and boisterous laughter 
had lessened, and the country stillness was 
scarcely broken by their noise. For most 
of them, indeed, this quiet hour among the 


94 THE riverpark rebellion. 

shadows of the forest was the only bit of 
genuine enjoyment that they had during 
their entire outing. Even Brightly felt the 
calming influence of Nature on his per- 
turbed spirit. 

Brede had stretched himself lazily on 
the ground, and he and two or three oth- 
ers were smoking cigars, which one of their 
number had thought to bring. There was 
no sign of serious thought in his face, nor 
of genuine enjoyment. He felt that he 
had crossed the Rubicon of disobedience ; 
he proposed now to indulge his vicious 
taste for rebellious freedom to the full. 

It was Plumpy who called the company 
to attention by the remark, “ I ’m hungry. 
Is n’t it about lunch-time ? ” 

The few watches in the crowd were 
consulted, and it was discovered to be 
nearly noon. Every one was hungry, and 
every one said so. Then the question 
arose as to how, when, and where food was 
to be obtained. 

Some one bethought him of a country 
store that he had once seen at a cross-road 
corner a little way down the main road, 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 


95 


and it was resolved to go there. But who 
would buy the things to eat ? This ques- 
tion led to the evident necessity of further 
plans, and Drake’s fertile mind quickly 
conceived a way out of the difficulty. 

“ Now, boys,” he said, “ I ’ll tell you what 
we ’ve got to do. Everybody ’s got to turn 
his pockets inside out, an’ give all the 
money he ’s got to one fellow. I should 
say give it to Captain Brede, — he ’s the 
head man here, — an’ let him be the treas- 
urer, an’ make the bargains an’ buy the 
things for us all.” 

“ But,” suggested one, whose pockets 
were evidently not empty, “ some ’ll be 
givin’ twice as much as others, an’ that 
won’t be fair.” 

Drake was ready with an answer to the 
objection. 

“ Well,” he said, “ everybody gives all 
he ’s got, an’ if he aint got anything, he 
don’t give anything, — not now. An’ when 
we get back, we ’ll figure up what it all 
cost, an’ then every fellow ’s got to pay his 
share, an’ you that pay more now ’ll get 
that much more back.” 


96 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


This plan met the approval of the com- 
pany, and all hands were immediately 
plunged into their owners’ pockets. 

It was not a wealthy assemblage. There 
were forty-one boys in the company, and 
the sum of their riches, which consisted 
largely of pennies and fractional currency, 
was six dollars and fifty-four cents. Brede 
took the money, and the boys resumed 
their march. They went up to the high- 
way, and turned toward the south. It 
was a good mile to the country store, 







very hungry. 

Brede acted as spokesman for the party. 

“ We’re out on a picnic to-day,” he ex- 
plained, “ and we want a little something 
to eat ; a kind of lunch, you know.” 

The storekeeper took a sugar-scoop out 
of a barrel and leaned on it for a minute, 
looking at the crowd that filled the space 
between his counters as if uncertain 
whether they were friends or foes. 

“Well,” he said finally, “wha’ do ye 
want? We’ve got crackers an’ cheese, 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 


97 


an’ that’s about all we hev got that’ll go 
around among ye.” 

“Well, boys,” inquired Brede, “what do 
you say? Shall we have crackers and 
cheese ? ” 

Every one assented, and the captain 
turned again to the storekeeper. 

“ How do you sell your crackers and 
cheese ? ” he asked. 

“ Crackers is wuth a shillin’ a pound, an’ 
cheese is wuth two shillin’.” 

“ Well, how many pounds do you think 
it ’d take for us ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’ know. S’pose you try ten 
pounds o’ crackers an’ a couple or three 
pounds o’ cheese ; an’ if that aint enough, 
why, they ’s more here.” 

“ All right, weigh it out.” 

The crackers were weighed out and dis- 
tributed, the cheese cut into small pieces 
and laid on the counters ; and the hungry 
lads helped themselves so liberally that it 
was not a great while before a fresh supply 
was called for. Brede paid for the lunch 
with an important air, and the store- 
keeper, who had hitherto appeared as if 
7 


98 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


fearful that he was contracting a bad debt, 
suddenly relaxed into good humor, and 
put on a more hospitable manner. 

“ Anything else I can git for ye, young 
gentlemen?” he asked. 

Plumpy responded. “ We ’d like a little 
after-dinner coffee,” he said soberly, “ and 
some nuts and fruit ; and I desire to re- 
mind you, as delicately as possible, that 
you have forgotten to furnish us with 
napkins and finger-bowls.” 

For a moment the storekeeper looked 
puzzled, but the shouts and laughter of the 
other boys soon convinced him that noth- 
ing more was really required. 

A straw hat was voted to Patchy, and 
purchased with money from the common 
fund ; then the question arose again : 
What should be done next ? Some of the 
boys, Brightly among the number, were in 
favor of turning back up the road toward 
Riverpark. They calculated that it would 
be almost time for retreat before they 
could reach there, if they should start 
immediately. This plan might have pre- 
vailed had not the storekeeper, anxious to 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 


99 


find favor in the eyes of his customers, 
made a suggestion which met with their 
immediate and hearty approval. 

“ Mebbe,” he said reflectively, “ mebbe 
you young gentlemen ’d like to go on 
down to New Hornbury an’ see the circus. 
’T aint but a few mile below here. Them ’s 
the advertisements up there,” pointing to 
the highly-colored show-bills hanging from 
the beams at the back of the store. 

The thought of a circus is always a 
pleasant one to boys, but to these boys on 
this day it presented a suggestive attrac- 
tiveness that was wholly irresistible. They 
shouted as with one voice: u The circus! 
the circus ! hurrah for the circus ! ” 

In two minutes the store at the country 
cross-roads was empty of human beings, 
and the storekeeper was standing on his 
porch watching the shouting and hurrying 
crowd of boys as they moved along the 
highway, their faces still turned toward the 
south. The road was broad and smooth, 
and the anticipation of unusual pleasure 
so nerved their limbs and refreshed their 
spirits that they made very good time 


100 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


toward their new destination for the first 
few miles of the way. 

But weariness overtook them, and their 
steps lagged before they were able to dis- 
cern the flags floating from the tent-tops, 
before even the outskirts of the town 
came upon their view. Finally Brede, 
who was in the lead, threw himself at full 
length on a shady bank, exclaiming, “ I ’m 
going to take a rest ! ” 

The other boys were not long in follow- 
ing his example. They were all tired, 
dusty, and perspiring, and glad enough to 
get a minute’s respite from their toilsome 
march, even at the risk of being late at the 
circus. 

An embarrassing thought came to 
Fry ant. 

“ Have we got money enough to take us 
all in ? ” he asked. “ How much is there 
left, Cap?” 

Brede made a hasty calculation on the 
sleeve of his white cuff. “ Four dollars 
and thirty-three cents,” he replied. 

“ How much does it cost to get in ? ” 
some one asked. 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 10 1 

Fryant answered promptly, “ Fifty 
cents apiece.” 

“ Let me see,” said the questioner, 
“ that ’d be — Brede, you figure it.” 

“ That would be,” responded Brede, 
slowly, marking again on his cuff, “ twenty 
dollars and fifty cents for the crowd.” 

A look of consternation came upon all 
faces. 

“That settles it ! ” exclaimed Brightly; 
“ we can’t go in.” Indeed, he was rather 
glad of it. There would be some excuse 
now for turning back toward home. He 
feared lest the company, by inconsiderate 
action, should make it impossible to reach 
Riverpark before night. 

“ But,” said Fryant, after a moment of 
comparative silence, “ there are half of us 
who are young enough to go in at half- 
price.” 

“ And they always give schools a reduc- 
tion,” added another. 

“ And their old show must be half-out 
by this time, anyway,” said a third, com 
suiting his watch. 

“ But there ’s Plumpy,” said Drake, in 


102 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


whom not even the seriousness of the 
emergency could wholly quench the spirit 
of fun. “ Plumpy ’s as big as any five of 
us, an’ it ’d cost two dollars an’ a half to 
get him in, anyway, and they ’d have to cut 
the canvas to do it, at that.” 

Patchy had lately been reading the story 
of Joseph and his brethren. 

“ Le ’s sell Plumpy to the Lishmalites 
for a freak ! ” he exclaimed, f ‘ an’ go into 
the show on the money.” 

There was a general shout at this, in 
which Plumpy joined, and after that the 
fat boy bore the added title, “ The Freak.” 

‘'Well,” cried Brede, petulantly, “ there ’s 
no time for fooling. Shall we go on ? 
What do you say ? ” 

“ Yes,” came the answer from nearly 
every one. “ Go on.” 

“ Come along, then ! ” 

Brede led the way, and the tired strag- 
glers started out once more in his wake. 
At the very next turn in the road they 
discovered the town of New Hornbury, 
and to their ears came faintly the inspire 
ing strains of music from the band. They 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 103 

hurried on, to find that the circus-tents 
were set up in the southerly suburbs of 
the town. It was nearly four o’clock when 
they reached the ground, and some one 
told them that the show had been in pro- 
gress for more than an hour. 

Brede and Fryant held a hasty con- 
ference with one of the managers, who 
chanced to be in the ticket-seller’s wagon, 
and explained the situation to him in a 
few words. 

“ How much money has your crowd 
got?” he asked. Brede told him. “Well, 
give us three dollars,” he said. 

Then, as the money was paid to him, 
stepping down from the wagon, he con- 
tinued : “Never mind the tickets; come 
along with me.” 

He led the party through the entrance 
of the main tent, and piloted them to seats 
in the high back-rows on the farther side 
of the arena. 

There was still a good hour left of the 
performance, and those of the boys who 
were not too tired to enjoy anything 
seemed to derive some pleasure from the 


104 THE RIVE RP ARK REBELLION-. 

exhibition. But poor little Patchy, over- 
come by heat and fatigue, fell asleep in 
Brightly’s arms long before the last gor- 
geous procession had made its final exit. 

When the party came out of the me- 
nagerie tent, some time after the close of 
the performance, it was nearly six o’clock. 
Struggling away from the outpouring mass 
of people, they gathered at one side of the 
circus ground for consultation. 

What was to be done now? They were 
all very tired and very hungry. In an 
hour darkness would set in, and they were 
ten miles from home. They had left of 
their common fund only a dollar and 
thirty-three cents, — not enough to hire 
conveyances to take them to Riverpark ; 
not enough to pay their passage by either 
boat or cars ; not enough to pay for beds 
to sleep on here ; not even enough to buy 
for their supper so poor a meal as they 
had eaten at mid-day. The situation was 
a serious one. There was no jesting now. 
Every tired face was sober and anxious in 
its aspect. 

Brede was sullen, and answered ques- 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. 


105 


tions in petulant monosyllables, or refused 
to answer at all. Brightly saw the im- 
possibility of getting these foot-sore lads 
back to Riverpark through the darkness 
of night, and could suggest nothing better 
than that they should remain where they 
were until morning. The prospect was 
indeed disheartening. 

Then one of the boys spoke up who 
had, hitherto, said very little. His name 
was Gluck, and he was of German descent. 
His home was in the city of Newburg, 
about six miles farther down, on the other 
side of the Hudson. 

“I have an uncle,” he said, “a farmer, 
who lives across the river about a mile 
below here. If you boys have a mind to 
go over there with me, we can get a roof 
to sleep under, and something for supper 
and breakfast, and he ’ll trust me for the 
bill.” 

The suggestion was adopted at once. 
It seemed to be a sure way out of the 
present difficulty. Brede alone remained 
sullen and silent. The party moved up 
the street and then down to the dock. 


106 THE RIVE RP ARK REBELLION. 

There was a row-boat ferry there, and, 
after much dickering, the proprietor of it 
agreed to take them across the river for 
six shillings. 

Brede inquired privately of a man stand- 
ing by when the next train would go north, 
and, learning that it was due at New Horn- 
bury in about ten minutes, he became ani- 
mated with a sudden desire to get the boats 
loaded and started as quickly as possible. 
He took charge of the proceeding, and 
hurried it along vigorously. 

The first boat, in which Brightly had 
embarked, with the smaller boys, had al- 
ready been pushed off, and the strong 
young man who managed it was heading 
it down the river against the tide. In the 
second boat the proprietor of the ferry 
seated himself at the oars. 

“ All ready ! ” cried Brede, still standing 
on the dock; “ push off ! ” 

“ Aint you goin 1 yourself? ” inquired 
the man. 

“ No ; push off, I say ! ” 

The ferryman, with a sweep of his oars, 
placed a broad band of foaming water be- 


A HAPLESS HOLIDAY. loy 

tween the boat and the landing. Then 
some one, recovering from sudden amaze- 
ment, pointed’ at Brede and shouted, — 

“ He ’s got the money ! ” 

The shout aroused Brightly in the for- 
ward boat. He took in the situation at a 
glance. 

“ Stop ! ” he cried to the rowers ; “ stop ! 
turn back — back — quick — to the landing ! ” 
Brede had already turned, and was hast- 
ening up the dock toward the railroad 
station. The whole party understood the 
meaning of his conduct now, and every 
breast was filled with sudden indignation. 
He was playing the part of traitor and 
coward at a most critical moment. 

The water curled and foamed under the 
oars of the rowers in the foremost boat 
as it was backed speedily to the landing. 
Brightly leaped lightly to the dock, and, 
followed by a half-dozen others, gave chase 
to the retreating captain. Brede saw them 
coming, and broke into a run. 

Already the whistle of the approaching 
train was in his ears, and the next minute 
it rumbled by him and pulled up at the 


io8 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


station. He knew that if he could reach 
it and get on board, he could protect him- 
self from his pursuers during the minute 
that might elapse before it should be again 
under way. He redoubled his efforts. 

The bell rang for the train to move. 
The rear car was not fifty feet ahead of 
him ; but behind him he heard fleet steps 
and quick breathing, and he knew that 
Brightly was at his heels. 


CHAPTER VI. 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 

The race was an exciting one. The 
people who crowded the platform of the 
station looked on with interest, supposing 
that both boys were running to catch the 
train. 

At the edge of the platform Brede 
tripped and fell, with Brightly so close 
behind that he stumbled involuntarily 
over the captain’s prostrate body. In an 
instant both boys were up and facing 
each other, Brightly’s face pale with ex- 
citement and determination, and Brede’s 
distorted with fear and anger. 

“You coward!” exclaimed Brightly, his 
breast heaving with exhaustion and indig- 
nation. “You coward, give back that 
money !” 

For an instant Brede glared defiantly at 
his captor; then, as the conductor shouted 


I IO 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


“ All aboard ! ” and the engine gave its 
first long puff at starting, he plunged his 
hand into his pocket, held out a handful of 
small coin and paper currency, and turned 
again toward the cars. 

“ Stop ! ” said Brightly, looking the 
money over rapidly. “ Wait ! This is n’t 
all of it; I want the rest.” 

“ I ’ll keep my part,” replied Brede, dart- 
ing suddenly in among the people. Before 
he could escape, Brightly’s hand was on 
his shoulder, and the demand was repeated. 
The fugitive turned, almost crying in his 
rage, and flung a few pieces of paper 
money into his captor’s face. Then, grasp- 
ing the rail of the last car as it passed rap- 
idly by him, he swung himself to the step. 
Some one helped him up to the platform, 
and he looked back with a curse on his 
white lips as the train bore him swiftly out 
of sight. By this time the entire party 
had disembarked, and were hurrying to- 
ward the station. Brightly, after a few 
words of explanation to the men who gath- 
ered about him on the platform, turned 
back to meet his companions. They had 


QUARTERED OAT A HAYMOW. Ill 

all witnessed Brede’s treachery, and were 
all excited and indignant to the last de- 
gree. They crowded around Brightly, ask- 
ing all sorts of questions : “ Why did n’t 
you knock ’im down, Bright ? ” “ Why 

did n’t you kick ’im ? ” “ Why did n’t you 

hold ’im so ’t he could n’t go ? ” 

Brightly turned on the last questioner. 

“ We ’re lucky to get rid of him,” he re- 
plied. “ We don’t want him with us.” 

“ That *s so ! ” came the response from a 
dozen voices at once, and the party went 
down again to the dock. 

“ Did you ketch ’im ? ” asked the ferry- 
man. 

“We did,” was the reply. 

“ Git the money ? ” 

“Yes; you shall have your pay as soon 
as you land us on the other side.” 

Once more the company embarked. 
The sky was heavily overcast, and the 
south wind that had sprung up during the 
afternoon had increased almost to a gale. 
The tide was setting strongly northward ; 
the white caps were riding the crests of 
the waves ; and when they were fairly out 


1 1 2 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


into the stream, the boats rocked and 
plunged violently. The timid ones clung 
to the sides and the benches in fear, and 
the rowers labored strenuously to push 
the heavily laden vessels through the beat- 
ing waves. Once the rear boat, by some 
mischance, shipped a heavy sea, and the 
drenched lads cried out in terror. 

The river is narrow at this point, and 
the time occupied in crossing would not 
have been very great if the water had been 
smooth. As it was, darkness was settling 
down when both boats reached the west- 
ern shore ; and besides being hungry and 
excessively fatigued, many of the lads were 
weak from fright after the terrors of the 
rough passage. 

Brightly paid the boatman the fee agreed 
upon, and, with Gluck leading, the party 
turned again to the south, and soon began 
to wind up the hill to the tableland back 
from the river. 

It was nearly two miles to Gluck’s un- 
cle’s farm, and long before they reached 
the place thick darkness had fallen on 
them from a starless sky. They said little 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 113 

as they toiled up the long stretches of 
hilly road ; the time for song and jest 
and play was long past ; the only words 
that escaped their lips now were words 
of suffering. 

To all of them the physical discomforts 
resulting from hunger and fatigue were 
extreme; and for many of them, especially 
the smaller boys, the strangeness of the 
situation and the darkness of the night 
added a touch of terror. Patchy was cry- 
ing softly as he stumbled on, holding fast 
to Brightly’s hand, and it would have 
taken but slight provocation to bring tears 
to the eyes of many others. 

Finally lights were seen gleaming 
through the trees a little distance away, 
and Gluck declared that they were ap- 
proaching the house. He had spent a 
month there during the preceding sum- 
mer vacation, and knew the place well. 
The party waited outside by the gate while 
Gluck went in to acquaint his uncle with 
the situation, and to bespeak his kind offi- 
ces. It seemed to the weary lads, who had 

only to stand in the darkness and listen to 

8 


1 14 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

the barking and the growling of the dogs, 
that their spokesman was a long time 
gone. 

Gluck told them afterward that he had 
great difficulty in making the honest Ger- 
man farmer believe that his tale was true. 
But the door was opened at last, the light 
shone out cheerily from it, and Gluck’s 
voice was heard saying, “ It’s all right ? 
boys! You’re to come in.” 

They entered the house, and were 
greeted good-naturedly by the astonished 
farmer and his still more astonished wife. 
Places to sit were found for the exhausted 
lads in the sitting-room and kitchen, 
and the German host moved around 
among them smoking a drooping pipe, 
and exclaiming, — 

“Veil! veil! Uf I don’t see it myself, 
I don’t haf pelieved it! Heinrich,” turn- 
ing to his nephew, “ was ist los’ mit der 
schule, ha? Veil! veil!” 

In the mean time the good wife, with the 
help of a rosy-cheeked girl, was stirring up 
flour and grinding coffee in the pantry ; 
and almost before they could realize it, the 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 115 

boys in the kitchen saw the biscuits brown- 
ing in the sloping pan of the Dutch oven, 
and caught the fragrant fumes of the boil- 
ing beverage. 

As soon as each boy had finished wash- 
ing his face and hands in the basin at the 
sink, a thick slice of bread and a piece of 
cold sausage were given to him, and later 
on, when appetites were well sharpened, 
hot biscuits and coffee were added to the 
repast. Every one was satisfied at last; 
every one declared it the best meal he had 
ever eaten, and every one blessed Gluck 
and praised Gluck’s uncle and aunt with- 
out stint. 

But no sooner had the food been dis- 
posed of and the plates and crumbs cleared 
away, than many of the boys, especially the 
younger ones, began to grow sleepy, and 
wide yawns were visible in almost every 
direction. 

The good farmer and his wife had been 
consulting together on the practical ques- 
tion of what was to be done with the party 
for the night. There were but five beds 
in the house. Quarters on the floor were 


1 16 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

proposed, but young Gluck interposed 
with another suggestion. 

“There’s the barn, Uncle Carl. We 
could all sleep there on the haymow.” 

“ Yes,” replied Brightly, “that would do 
very nicely. We should be glad to sleep 
there, should n’t we, boys ? ” 

“Yes! yes!” was the hearty response. 
“ Indeed we should ! ” added Drake. 

In spite of their weariness, there was 
something in the thought of sleeping on a 
haymow in a country barn that appealed 
to the love of the romantic in these boys, 
and they caught at the suggestion with 
great eagerness. Gluck’s uncle left the 
room with a puzzled expression on his 
face ; but returning in a few moments with 
a lighted lantern, he beckoned to the boys 
to follow him out into the yard. 

Gluck arose to go with the rest ; but his 
aunt went up to him, put her hand on his 
arm, and asked him if he would not' sleep 
in the house. 

“ No, auntie,” he replied, “ I will go with 
the boys. We must all fare alike to-night.” 

“So?” 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. \lj 

“Yes. Good-night, auntie.” 

“ Gute nacht ! ” 

The other boys said good-night to their 
hostess as they passed out of the door, and 
then, in single file, they followed the far- 
mer across the wide barn-yard. They en- 
tered the building by a low door at one 
corner, went along a narrow aisle between 
two high board partitions, and came in fin- 
ally on the wide threshing-floor between 
the bays. This floor extended the entire 
length of the barn, and on each side of it, 
about midway, a narrow vertical ladder ran 
up between fixed posts, by which one could 
reach the top of the mow at whatever 
height it might be. 

At this season of the year the hay was 
greatly reduced in quantity. The bay on 
one side of the threshing-floor was quite 
empty ; on the other side the mow reached 
to a height of only eight or ten feet from 
the floor. The farmer pointed to the lad- 
der on this side, and said smiling, “You 
must dees latter goen oop, und you vill de 
bett finden.” 

Drake was the first to mount. 


Il8 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

“ It ’s splendid up here ! ” he cried. 
“ Oceans an’ oceans o’ room ! ” 

So, one by one, the boys climbed to 
their strange quarters on the haymow. 
The last one to go up was Plumpy the 
Freak. Gluck’s uncle looked in amused 
astonishment at the ponderous, awkward 
figure, with its masses of moving flesh, as 
the fat boy slowly worked his way upward. 

“ Veil ! veil !” he exclaimed, holding his 
lantern high, in order to see the more 
clearly, “ uf I don’t see it myself, I don’t 
haf pelieved it.” 

Hanging the lantern on a wooden pin 
in the framework, and cautioning the boys 
not to disturb it, and not to strike a match 
nor make a fire of any kind in the barn, 
the farmer responded to the chorus of 
good-nights from the mow, and made his 
way through the darkness, back across the 
barnyard to his house. On almost any 
other occasion there would have been an 
unlimited amount of horse-play, before 
these boys could have settled themselves 
for the night and gone to sleep. But now 
all the boys were too weary to be gay, and 



He lay staring into the deep shadows, until it became 
IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM LONGER TO REMAIN QUIET. Page 119. 




























































































QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 119 

in less than twenty minutes from the time 
of the mounting of the ladder the whole 
company was asleep. 

Yet not the whole company. Brightly 
closed his eyes, but sleep would not come 
to him. In this strange place, in this hour 
of quiet, with only the heavy breathing 
around him to break the stillness; with 
only the dim light of the lantern to make 
partly visible and wholly weird the huge 
timbers and vast spaces of the great barn’s 
interior, — thought took possession of his 
mind and drove slumber from his eyelids. 
Regret assailed him ; conscience awakened, 
and began again her vigorous reproach. 

He lay staring into the deep shadows 
among the tie-beams and rafters until it 
became impossible for him longer to re- 
main quiet. Gently disengaging himself 
from Patchy’s arm, which the child had 
thrown across his protector’s breast at the 
very moment when sleep conquered him, 
Brightly arose from his bed of hay, slid 
softly to the ladder, and crept down it to 
the floor of the barn. 

The carpet of straw that covered the 


120 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


floor-planks deadened the sound of his 
footsteps, and he was able to walk up and 
down the entire length of the building 
without in any way disturbing the sleepers 
on the mow. Thus walking, he gave him- 
self up to thought, — bitter, laborious, regret- 
ful thought. 

He went back over the entire history of 
his troubles at Riverpark, beginning with 
the appointments six months before, and 
culminating in this night of adventure 
and suffering. 

With that brief review he recognized his 
error, — an error founded on jealousy, nur- 
tured in selfish pride, and fed and fostered 
with a lie. Colonel Silsbee had sought to 
make it plain to him, but without success ; 
Harple, with all the earnestness of friend- 
ship, had brought it up in vain before his 
mind and conscience. 

But now, this night, in this strange 
place, his eyes were opened, and he saw. 
One sweep of his own hand at last had 
brushed away the clinging cobwebs, and 
the full extent of his folly and guilt lay 
bare before him. 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 


12 1 


But it was of no use now to think of 
what might have been. The past was be- 
yond recall. It would lie forever behind 
him, a great shadow of disgrace and humi- 
liation, which only the long years could 
lessen. 

It was the future of which he must now 
think. What should that be ? What 
should he do to-morrow, next day, next 
week? Could he ever retrieve the dis- 
asters he had brought upon himself ? 
Was it possible for him to begin again 
at the lowest round of the ladder and toil 
back up into manhood ? 

Back and forth the young penitent 
walked, up and down, dashing a tear 
from his face now and then, never halt- 
ing in his march. The minutes grew into 
hours ; but the sleepers on the mow slept 
on, unconscious of the agony below them, 
knowing nothing of the storm that raged 
in their companion’s heart. But when the 
storm passed, the atmosphere it left was 
clean and pure ; and when, in the small 
hours of the morning, the lad climbed up 
again to his bed of hay, his mind was fixed, 


122 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


and his heart was set. After that, no power 
could be strong enough to move him from 
the path that he had marked out for his 
feet to follow. 

It was late on the following morning be- 
fore the guests at the farmer’s barn de- 
scended the vertical ladder to the floor. 
They brushed the hay-seed from their 
clothing and the hay-dust from their eyes, 
and went over, in little groups, to the farm- 
house. Gluck’s aunt had prepared for 
them a breakfast similar to the supper 
of the night before, only a little better and 
in greater variety, and they partook of it 
heartily and thankfully. 

The strong south wind had brought up, 
during the night, a storm of rain, and as 
soon as the lads had done eating, they 
retired again to the shelter of the barn. 

Brightly was the last to return from 
breakfast, and when he entered the barn 
he found that the boys were all waiting 
for him. 

“We’ve agreed to leave it to you, 
Bright,” said one, “ what we shall do. 
We’ve got to do something, that’s cer- 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 123 

tain. To my mind we ’re in a pretty bad 
fix.” 

Brightly stood with his back to the door- 
post, facing the assembly. 

“ I ’ve been thinking the matter over a 
little, boys,” he replied, “ and talking with 
Gluck’s uncle about it. We ’ve got to get 
back to Riverpark to-day some way ; that ’s 
plain, is n’t it ? ” 

They all assented. 

“ Well, we could n’t find wagons enough 
here to carry us back if we had the money 
to hire them ; we could n’t pay our way on 
the cars if we were to cross the river ; so I 
don’t know of any better plan than to go 
as we came, — on foot. We have enough 
money to pay our passage across the river, 
and once on the other side we can get up 
to Riverpark easily enough. It will be a 
long march and a tiresome one, and will 
take the better part of the day ; but it s the 
best plan I can think of. If anybody has a 
better one, let ’s have it.” 

No one could suggest anything better; 
and, after a minute’s awkward pause, 
Brightly continued, somewhat hesitatingly 


124 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


at first, but with increasing firmness and 
earnestness, — 

“ Now that I ’m talking, I may as well 
tell you what I think of this whole busi- 
ness. I think not only that we ’ve made 
fools of ourselves, but that it ’s a good deal 
worse than that ; and I believe we ’ve got 
some pretty serious matters to face when 
we get back. I don’t know what the col- 
onel will do. 1 should n’t be surprised at 
anything in the way of punishment ; I ’m 
sure we deserve all that we shall get. But 
if he lets us stay at Riverpark, I think we 
ought to be very thankful, and very hum- 
ble, too, and take whatever comes to us, 
and bear it like men. We’ve treated the 
colonel very shabbily ; now let ’s try and 
make it up to him as fast and as far as we 
can.” 

Everybody looked a little ashamed when 
the speaker stopped, but no one said a 
word. 

“ And before we go,” continued Brightly, 
“ I think it ’s due to these kind people who 
have fed and sheltered us, that we should 
express our thanks to them in some formal 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. 12 5 

way. They’ve certainly treated us very 
kindly indeed.” 

“ That ’s so,” said Drake, earnestly ; “ and 
I move that Bright and Gluck go over to 
the house an’ tell ’em so, as the opinion of 
the crowd .’ 1 

The motion was unanimously carried. 

“You can’t make it any too strong, fel- 
lows,” said one of the party ; “ tell ’em we ’ll 
never forget it of ’em, never.” 

When the two boys came back there 
were traces of tears in their eyes. Some- 
thing that the good people had said or 
done had made them cry. 

After a little Gluck’s uncle came out 
with the basket of sandwiches that they 
were to carry with them for their lunch. 
The rain had ceased falliug for a time, and 
they thought it best to start. 

Brightly formed them in ranks, assign- 
ing to places of command such officers as 
were in the party. 

“ We can do better in marching order, 
boys,” he said ; “ we can make better time, 
and keep together better. Now, then, are 
you all ready ? Forward, march ! ” 


126 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION \ 


They moved out into the road in good 
form and with soldierly precision ; but 
when they came in front of the large white 
farm-house, the command was given to 
them to halt. 

“ Right face ! ” 

They turned as one man. 

“ Three cheers for Gluck’s uncle and 
aunt ! ” 

“ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ” 

They were given with a will, and a rous- 
ing tiger added. 

“ Left face ! Forward, march ! ” 

The farmer gazed after the retreating 
column in open-mouthed wonder and 
admiration. 

“ Veil ! veil ! ” he exclaimed to his wife, as 
the company vanished from his sight 
around a curve in the road, “ven some- 
pody told me dees I don’t haf pelieved it.” 

But it was a sorry band of soldiers. The 
first mile of muddy road wearied them, the 
second was discouraging, the third brought 
suffering. They stopped by the roadside 
many times to rest. Once they took re- 
fuge in an open barn from the pelting rain. 


QUARTERED ON A HAYMOW. \ 2 f 

They were drenched, ragged, splashed with 
mud, footsore, weak from hunger and fa- 
tigue. It took all of Brightly ’s powers of 
command, of logic, of entreaty, of encour- 
agement, to hold them to their places and 
keep them moving. 

But he did it. The hours passed, the 
wind grew chill, the weariness increased; 
but every step brought them nearer and 
yet nearer to the longed for destination, — 
the home they had so lightly and reck- 
lessly left in the sunshine of the day 
before. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 

On the morning of the departure of the 
rebels from Riverpark, Mr. Graydon, one 
of the teachers, happening to stand at 
the window of his recitation-room, saw 
the boys as they ran to the fence, leaped 
over, and passed into the fields beyond. 
He was too greatly astonished by the act 
to realize at once what it meant. Then 
it occurred to him that these lads had 
broken into open rebellion, and were 
about to take the holiday that had been 
denied them by the principal. He hurried 
across the schoolroom to Colonel Silsbee’s 
office, and entered it in a state of great 
excitement. 

“ They have gone ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ The boys — forty or fifty of them — have 
leaped the south fence, and are hurrying 
across the fields into the country!” 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 1 29 

Colonel Silsbee started from his chair, 
and the blood rushed violently to his face. 

“ Is it possible ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Yes; I just saw them from my win- 
dow. If you ’ll step this way, you can see 
them. They ’re not yet out of sight.” 

“ I prefer not to see them,” said the 
principal, sinking back into his chair. The 
blood had already receded, and left an un- 
usual pallor on his face. 

“ I did n’t know but you might want 
some of us to hurry out and intercept 
their flight,” continued Mr. Graydon, 
earnestly. 

“ No, I don’t think that would be wise. 
Let them go ; they ’ll repent of it sooner 
if allowed to take their own course. I ’m 
sorry, very sorry. It ’s an almost unpar- 
donable offence.” 

Other teachers now came in from the 
hall, and Colonel Silsbee continued : “ Our 
policy, gentlemen, will be to conduct the 
school as usual, and to take no notice of 
the affair until the boys return. They 
will doubtless be with us again before 
night, and then we will consult as to what 
9 


130 


THE R1VERPARK REBELLION. 


shall be done. Mr. Graydon, will you 
learn if the drummer has gone, and if so, 
will you find some one to beat the school- 
call ? ” 

Mr. Graydon hurried away, and, after a 
few more words, the other teachers passed 
to their respective rooms. 

In the mean time there was the most 
intense excitement among the boys who 
had remained. Some of them had gone 
to the highest windows of the building to 
watch the fleeing rebels ; others were ex- 
amining the fence where the runaways 
had leaped over or crawled through ; and 
still others were gathered in the hall and 
about the grounds, discussing the marvel- 
lous event with bated breath. 

At the usual hour the school-call was 
beaten on the drum ; the remnant of the 
battalion formed and passed into the 
schoolroom, and Colonel Silsbee came in, 
book in hand, as was his custom, to con- 
duct the morning service. He took his 
seat at the desk, laid his book down in 
front of him, and looked around over the 
half-empty benches. He was taking note 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 131 

of the absentees, trying to learn who of 
his soldiers had so betrayed his trust in 
them as to rise in open revolt against his 
rule. 

He cast his eyes toward Brede’s chair; 
it was empty. Those who were watching 
him saw a deeper compression of his lips. 
Harple was in his accustomed place ; he 
was glad of that, — he had placed much 
confidence in Harple. And Brightly — 
Brightly was missing. This seemed to 
give him much pain ; his pale face grew 
perceptibly paler. 

So his gaze went from one seat to an- 
other. The boys thought he would never 
have done looking them over. They saw 
that he was suffering ; they feared that he 
was trying to suppress intense anger; and 
they scarcely breathed until his eyes fell 
back upon his book, and he took it up and 
opened it as usual. 

He looked up again before he began to 
read, and his lips parted as if he was about 
to speak; but apparently he thought better 
of it, and, after a moments silence, went 
on with the morning Scripture lesson and 


132 


THE R1VERPARK REBELLION. 


prayer. After this he went back to his 
office, and the classes were called. None 
of the teachers made reference to the re- 
volt, and the morning dragged by with 
exasperating slowness. 

At lunch-time the boys almost darted 
from the ranks to form into excited and 
whispering groups. Where had the fugi- 
tives gone, and what punishment would 
they suffer on their return ? These were 
the topics of discussion. 

At dinner-time the excitement was in- 
tense, but not boisterous. The rebellion 
and flight were spoken of in hushed tones. 
The whole thing was so desperate and 
revolutionary. 

There were many who looked out occa- 
sionally across the fields by which the run- 
aways went, half-expecting to see them 
come straying back in time for dinner ; 
but the dinner-hour passed, and they did 
not come. The afternoon drill went on 
awkwardly. It was difficult to arrange the 
squads in the absence of so many men 
and officers. 

At retreat thirty-seven answered the 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 1 33 

roll-call. Supper was eaten in haste, and 
then every one went out to the best points 
on the grounds, or gathered in the south 
windows, to watch for the return of the 
holiday-seekers. No one dreamed that 
they would not come back before night- 
fall. There were several false alarms, es- 
pecially as twilight came on, and objects 
at a distance grew indistinct ; but the fugi- 
tives were watched for in vain. 

Colonel Silsbee began to be anxious. 
He had thought it best not to follow the 
erring lads, but to let them return at will. 
Consequently he had sent no messengers 
for them, and no messages to them. He 
preferred to deal with them after they had 
voluntarily returned to his authority. 

But now night was coming on, and they 
were still absent, and there were small 
boys among them who might be harmed 
by the unusual exposure. He had heard 
of them in the afternoon, — that they were 
on the high-road going toward New Horn- 
bury. He thought they would probably 
return in the same way, and he sent a 
team with a double wagon down to meet 


34 


THE K1VERPARK REBELLION. 


them, with instructions that certain of the 
smaller boys should be brought back in it. 

Night came; the call for the evening 
session was sounded, and again only the 
boys who had remained at home filed into 
their places in the schoolroom. 

Colonel Silsbee came in and took his 
place at the desk as usual. The look of 
anger which the boys thought they had 
seen on his face in the morning had now 
given way to one of anxiety and sadness. 
He looked down again on the empty chairs 
with perceptible emotion. 

“ To you who have remained faithful,” 
he said, addressing the boys, “it is per- 
haps right that I should say something of 
what has occurred. You doubtless agree 
with me that your companions who are 
absent from us to-night have made a griev- 
ous mistake. For those younger boys who 
have been led away thoughtlessly into this 
folly I have much anxiety and pity; but for 
those who are older, and who ought to be 
wiser, I know of no excuse. There must 
come a day of retribution for them, and 
their punishment will be severe. Some of 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 1 35 

these young men have received honors at 
our hands ; many of them have received fa- 
vors; all of them have enjoyed the best we 
had to give : and my indignatidn at their 
unexampled conduct is lost in the deep 
pain which their ingratitude has given 
me.” 

He paused a moment; then, greatly 
moved, he continued : “ I have had school- 
boys under my care for nearly thirty years, 
but I have never experienced anything like 
this before. It is not I alone who suffer; 
there are fathers and mothers who will be 
grieved beyond measure at this reckless 
conduct of their sons, for it is my plain 
duty to make that conduct known to 
them. 

“ To-night I can only hope that no harm 
will befall these rash adventurers ; to-mor- 
row they will doubtless be with us again, 
and in the hard, unhappy days that must 
come for them, we shall look to you, you 
who are wise, to lead them into right 
paths. From this time on, the honor of 
the school will rest on you.” 

He opened the book, and read a favorite 


136 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

selection from the Psalms ; but in the 
prayer his voice broke, and his “ Amen ” 
was scarcely audible. 

He went back across the room to his 
office; and the boys, some of them fur- 
tively wiping tears from their eyes, took 
up their evening tasks. 

The next day passed in much the same 
way as the preceding one had done. Some 
one brought a morning paper down from 
the city, and an eager group read the 
reporter’s vivid and somewhat amusing 
account of the rebellion and flight. A 
special telegram to the paper from New 
Hornbury, dated the previous night, was 
to the effect that the rebels had attended 
the circus at that town in a body, and 
from there had crossed the river by the 
rowboat ferry. The supposition was that 
they were on their way to New Bury. 

About noon a rumor came floating 
down to the school that one of the row- 
boats containing the runaways had been 
swamped, and several of the boys drowned; 
but telegraphic inquiry resulted in a con- 
tradiction of this report later in the day. 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 1 37 

No one was on the lookout for the 
home-coming now. The boys might re- 
turn, or they might not. To imaginations 
which had for two days endured such a 
prodigious strain, nothing could seem any 
longer improbable. But how desolate it 
seemed at the school ! How funereal ev- 
erything was, how quiet ! There were no 
games going on ; there was no sound of 
merry voices, no boisterous laughter, no 
fun of any kind ; but there were the empty 
benches, the eager faces, the thin ranks, 
the whispered conversations, the unusual 
monotony of the usual tasks. It was a 
dreary time. 

When the daily drill was over, at four 
o’clock, Harple went up to his room and 
threw himself into a chair by the window 
in gloomy despair. His surprise at the 
sudden departure of the rebellious com- 
pany had given way to pain and conster- 
nation when he learned that Brightly was 
a member of it ; and these feelings were in 
turn replaced by anxiety, alarm, deep grief, 
as the hours went by, and his friend and 
companion did not return. 


138 THE RIVER PARK REBELLION. 

There was no hope now in any direc- 
tion. Brightly, whom he had loved; of 
whom he had been proud ; for whom he 
had suffered ; for whom, indeed, he would 
have laid down his sword and shoulder- 
straps any day, if that would have saved 
him, — Brightly was lost beyond hope of 
recovery, disgraced and ruined beyond pos- 
sibility of reform. It was sad, it was very 
sad, — it was dreadful ! 

The lad started nervously to his feet, 
and began walking hastily up and down 
the narrow floor of his room. At last 
he dashed from his eyes the tears that 
had started there, and went about some 
tasks that he had set down for quiet 
accomplishment. 

It was a dark, dull day, wet and cold 
and cheerless. The rain, which had fallen 
irregularly during the morning hours, had 
now set in again more steadily, and was 
driving against the windows of Harple’s 
room in rattling sheets. 

About five o’clock Harple became aware 
that something unusual was going on in 
the hall below him. There were quick 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 139 

steps and excited voices. Outside some 
one was shouting and calling. He hur- 
ried to the window and looked out. 

The fugitives were returning. They 
were coming up from the street leading to 
the river, and climbing the terrace, one by 
one, to the drill-ground. 

They bore scarcely a resemblance to 
those boys of Riverpark who had started 
away in the morning of the day before, 
with shout and song, abounding in re- 
bellious glee. Their torn clothes were 
drenched with the rain and splashed with 
red mud. Their soiled faces were hag- 
gard and weatherbeaten, and bore marks 
of great weariness and pain. Their move- 
ments were slow and halting; and some, 
unable to climb the bank alone, were be- 
ing helped along by others. 

As they crossed the drill-ground there 
were no demonstrations, either of delight 
or disapproval. Those who saw them 
come and were waiting to welcome them, 
were too greatly shocked at their wretched 
appearance to do more than look upon 
them with surprise and pity. 


140 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION , . 


Harple did not go down. He sat in his 
chair by the window, with his face in his 
hands, and waited for his friend. Brightly 
came down the hall at last, with hesitating 
steps. 

“ Don’t look at me, Charley,” he said, as 
he entered the room ; “ don’t look at me ! ” 
His voice was weak and broken. The 
very sound of it roused all the pity in 
Harple’s compassionate nature. He rose 
from his chair, took one of Brightly’s hands 
in his, put his arm around Brightly’s neck, 
and laid his face against Brightly’s wet, 
cold cheek. That was the welcome. It 
was a long time before Brightly found his 
voice again. When he did, it was only 
long enough to say, — 

“ O Charley, it ’s been terrible ! terrible ! ” 
They did not talk much after that. 
Harple knew, from the first word that 
his chum had spoken, that no admoni- 
tion was needed from him. He helped 
Brightly to remove his wet garments and 
clothe himself in dry ones, and then he 
considerately left the room. 

It was after supper that Brightly took 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 141 

down his military coat, and severed the 
shoulder-straps from it, and the honor- 
grade chevrons from the sleeves. Then 
he took these, and his sword and sash, and 
went downstairs. He crossed through the 
private hall to Colonel Silsbee’s office 
door, knocked, and was bidden to enter. 
The principal was there alone. Brightly 
laid the insignia of his rank on the table 
before Colonel Silsbee. 

“ I have brought these things to you,” 
he said. “ I have no right to them any 
more. I have worn them unworthily. 
There was no excuse for my going 
away. I have been very foolish and 
wicked and ungrateful.” 

He hesitated a moment, then went on : 
“ I would like to speak about that night 
that you called me in before Brede and 
Finkelton to explain my marks. That 
was a lie that I told then. The figures 
were correct before. I did not change 
them ; I don’t know, certainly, who did. 
I would like to have them put back as 
they were. I hope it won’t be necessary 
to send me away. I look at things very 


142 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


differently from what I did yesterday. I 
am ready to stand any punishment. I 
don’t want to be released from any, — 
I did n’t come to you for that ; I only 
wanted you to know that I ’m not rebel- 
lious any longer — nor careless — nor — ” 

But here the lad broke down. He had 
spoken with painful hesitancy for a whole 
minute. 

He had feared that his coming might be 
misinterpreted. But there was no danger 
of that. When he looked at Colonel Sils- 
bee again he knew there was no danger of 
it. The man, with his sympathetic nature, 
had divined the boy’s feelings to their 
greatest depth. He rose from his chair 
and laid his hand on Brightly ’s shoulder. 

“ I am glad you came,” he said. “You 
must suffer with the rest, but — I am glad 
you came. I shall remember it of you, — 
I shall never forget it.” 

It was strange, but Colonel Silsbee’s 
voice had broken, too. He turned his face 
away and resumed his seat, and, in the 
silence that ensued, Brightly went quietly 
out. 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 143 

The next morning at the opening of 
the morning session, Colonel Silsbee came 
in, and conducted the Scripture reading 
and prayer as usual, but made no remarks. 
He merely gave to the officer of the day, 
for record, a slip of paper which contained 
the order placing on perpetual delinquency 
all members of the school who had par- 
ticipated in the rebellion. 

That night, at retreat, another order 
was read by the acting adjutant, reducing 
permanently to the ranks all officers, both 
commissioned and non-commissioned, who 
had taken part in the revolt. 

But what had become of Brede ? This 
was the question which now agitated the 
school. He had not as yet returned to 
Riverpark. He had not been seen by any 
one connected with the academy since his 
departure northward on the train from 
New Hornbury. Every one now knew of 
his treacherous and cowardly conduct, and 
the general opinion was that he was afraid 
to return. 

But the doubt as to his whereabouts was 


144 


THE RIVE RP ARK REBELLION. 


soon to be dispelled. It was not long after 
taps that night, that those of the boys who 
were not yet asleep heard an unusual com- 
motion downstairs. There were hurrying 
footsteps, loud voices, once a noise as of 
a slight scuffle ; then all was quiet again. 

On the following morning, at the reveille 
roll-call, a whisper ran rapidly around the 
school to the effect that Brede was in the 
guard-house. This was a cell-like room, 
on the second floor, in a remote corner of 
the building, with one narrow window near 
the ceiling, and a heavy door studded with 
round-headed spikes, and locked with a 
great brass key. 

Only once before, in the memory of the 
oldest student, had that door been opened 
to admit a refractory pupil. Indeed, few 
of those in the school had even so much 
as seen it. The guard-house was always 
spoken of with an indefinable shiver, and 
an unpleasant thought of bread and water 
and ghostly solitude. The fact that Brede 
was confined there brought to a climax the 
excitement under which the school had 
been laboring for a week. 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 145 

Later in the " morning the nature of 
Brede’s offence became known. He had 
been found, the night before, at a disreput- 
able resort in the lower part of the city, in 
a state of gross intoxication. He had quar- 
relled with the keeper of the place, had 
been taken in charge by the police and 
marched to the station-house, where the 
police captain had recognized him ; and on 
account of his youth and the disgrace 
which would attend the publicity of his 
offence, had directed the officers to take 
him to Riverpark and turn him over to 
Colonel Silsbee for punishment. So now 
he was in the guard-house, living on bread 
and water. 

It was a terrible thing. Boys who were 
not accustomed to hearing stories of vice 
and crime, spoke of it in whispers. In- 
deed, there were some who hardly dared 
speak of it at all, it was so utterly and 
shamelessly disgraceful. 

That evening Brightly was sick. The 
fatigue and exposure, especially the ner- 
vous strain of the last few days, had so 
worn upon him that he was obliged to ask 
10 


146 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

for an excuse before the evening ses- 
sion was half through, that he might go 
to his room and to bed. The favor was 
readily granted, and he passed slowly 
up the two flights of stairs to the upper 
dormitory. 

As he went down the hall toward his 
room, he saw, through the transom over 
the door, a flickering light. He thought 
it strange, as he knew that Harple was 
still in the schoolroom. 

It suddenly occurred to him that it was 
the light of fire. He darted to the door, 
pushed it open, and started back in horri- 
fied amazement. 

Brede was kneeling by the bed, holding 
a lighted candle in his hand, and the mat- 
tress in front of him was rapidly bursting 
into flame. 

He had partly risen at Brightly’s ap- 
proach, and was facing the door when it 
was opened. Seeing who confronted him, 
he dropped the candle and made a savage 
spring toward his old antagonist. In a 
moment they were both on the floor, fight- 
ing desperately. 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES. 1 47 

Over and over they rolled, down the en- 
tire length of the hall. In their struggles 
they reached the landing at the head of 
the stairs, and the next violent turn sent 
them pitching down into the darkness. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A GENERAL AMNESTY, 

The two combatants, clasped tightly in 
each other’s arms, plunged into a party of 
teachers and cadets who were hastening 
upward in response to Brightly’s cry of 
“Fire!” In another moment Brede was 
secured ; and when the fire, which had been 
confined to Brightly’s room, was extin- 
guished, he was taken back to the guard- 
house, from which he had escaped by 
reason of a defective lock. 

When they came to assist Brightly to 
his feet they found that he had fainted. 
They carried him to Mrs. Silsbee’s rooms, 
and after a little time he returned to con- 
sciousness. He was badly bruised, and 
his wrist and shoulder were sprained. Be- 
yond that, he had sustained no bodily in- 
jury; but the shock to his nerves, already 
weak and disordered, had completely pros- 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 


I49 


trated him. That night a fever came on, 
and the next day he was delirious. 

When the boys marched into the school- 
room on the following evening, they all 
wore very sober faces. The events of the 
past twenty-four hours had been so dra- 
matic, so tragic, that the impressions left 
by them on these young minds were little 
less than terrible. The lads were fright- 
ened, humbled, submissive ; the rebellious 
spirit was utterly broken. 

Colonel Silsbee saw this in their faces 
that night as he looked down on them 
from the desk ; his sympathy grew strong 
for them, and he laid down his book and 
spoke to them. 

“ I had not thought,” he said, “ to speak 
to you of the occurrences of the past few 
days until some later period, when the ex- 
citement attending them should have died 
out, and we could talk of them calmly and 
without prejudice ; but the developments 
of the last twenty-four hours seem to make 
it fitting that something should be said to 
you to-night. I trust that the climax of 
the evil has been reached and passed. In- 


150 THE RIVE RP ARK REBELLION. 

deed, I know on looking into your faces, 
that this is so. I cannot doubt that you 
realize that the painful events of the 
past three days have been the result ot 
the folly of your own conduct. I speak 
to those of you who have been engaged 
in rebellion.” 

He paused a moment and then proceeded : 

“You thought you knew better than we 
did what was best for you. In carrying 
out that idea you took a fatiguing journey 
down the river; you narrowly escaped 
drowning in crossing the Hudson; and 
had it not been for the kindness of a 
stranger to all of you save one, you would 
have been shelterless and hungry in the 
storm and night. Your return home was 
a journey, of the sufferings of which I need 
not speak to you. Its accomplishment 
was made possible only by the energetic 
effort and forceful conduct of one of your 
own number. 

“ That was your holiday. Now what 
are the results? Broken studies, physical 
ailments, nervous exhaustion, ruined cloth- 
ing, officers reduced to ranks, half of the 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 15 I 

school on perpetual delinquency. These 
are some of them, but not the most serious. 

“In a family-room, in another part of 
this building, one of your comrades is 
raving in delirium. 

“In the guard-house, in still another part 
of the building, your former ranking cadet- 
commander is confined on prison-fare, hav- 
ing disgraced himself and having brought 
reproach on you and us. To the same 
building, which represents my earthly pos- 
sessions and answers for your home, the 
torch has been applied, and only a timely 
discovery has saved us all from homeless- 
ness and ruin.” 

His voice was trembling, but not with 
anger, and his face was very pale. After 
a moment’s pause, he continued, — 

“ You do not need reproof nor admoni- 
tion now ; I can see that very plainly. I 
recall these results only because I want 
you never to forget that the causes which 
have led to them were produced by you. 
Such things will not occur in this school 
again in my lifetime. This lesson will 
pass down through many generations of 


152 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


students here, and help them to firmer 
loyalty and higher manhood. But from 
to-night we shall fear no ill. From to- 
night we shall have the old fair feeling 
between us, and the old confidence and 
sympathy.” 

At the last his voice had broken, and it 
was some minutes before he felt that he 
could control it sufficiently to go on with 
the evening lesson and prayer ; but when 
the short service Was concluded, there was 
not a boy in the room whose better nature 
had not been deeply touched and strength- 
ened, and whose heart was not fixed stead- 
fastly for the right. 

The next night, when the ranks were 
formed at tattoo, the cadets were told that 
taps would not sound as usual ; that they 
were to go to their rooms, and might lie 
down if they chose, but that they were to 
hold themselves in readiness to “ fall in ” 
at any moment. 

At first no one knew what the order 
meant ; but it was soon whispered around 
that Brede’s father was coming that night 
to take his son away, and that the bat- 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 


153 


talion was to be formed at his departure. 
Of course, under these circumstances, 
sleep was out of the question, and Brede’s 
fate was the topic of conversation in every 
room. 

It was not until eleven o’clock that those 
on the east side of the building heard a 
carriage drive up to the front entrance. 
Then it was known that General Brede 
had come, and was alone with Colonel 
Silsbee in the office. A half-hour later 
orders were communicated to the cadets 
to form in the drill-hall. 

The formation of ranks was accom- 
plished almost noiselessly. The orderly 
sergeants called their rolls in tones scarce- 
ly above a whisper; all commands were 
given with hushed voices. It was as if 
they were fearful of rousing some one 
from sleep, or as if death was present in 
the house. 

The command to “ Rest ! ” was given. 
This left the boys free to move in their 
places and to talk; but there were few 
who moved and there were none who talked. 
The stillness was impressive. Only two 


154 THE RIVE RP ARK REBELLION. 

lamps were burning in the drill-hall, and 
the corners of the room were in deep 
shadow. 

Outside, by the door, a carriage waited, 
and there was heard at times the impatient 
pawing of horses. 

After a few minutes Colonel Silsbee 
and General Brede entered from the din- 
ing-room. The battalion was called to 
attention, and a squad of four was de- 
tailed, in charge of a sergeant, to proceed 
to the guard-house, relieve the sentinels 
on duty there, and escort Cadet Brede to 
the drill-hall. 

They passed out and up the stairs, and 
all was again quiet. 

Colonel Silsbee stood near the stairway 
entrance. General Brede had taken up a 
position at the farther end of the hall by 
the outside door. Dressed in military hat 
and cloak, magnificent in figure, stern of 
countenance, he stood with folded arms, 
like the immovable statue of a soldier. 

Once the horses moved outside ; once 
a sudden shifting of the wind caused the 
rain to dash noisily against the windows. 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 1 55 

Save for these sounds the stillness was 
unbroken. 

After a little the regular tramp of feet 
was heard descending the staircase, and 
out from the darkness the squad marched, 
with Brede in the midst, straight to 
Colonel Silsbee. The salute was given 
and returned, and the soldiers retired to 
their places in the ranks. With a slight 
motion of his hand, the colonel directed 
Brede to go with him. Then they went 
together down the length of the hall, down 
the front of the battalion. 

The disgraced cadet started on the try- 
ing journey with all of his old-time swag- 
ger. He looked boldly into the faces of 
his companions, and forced the hard smile 
again into his face, and the old cruel curl 
into his lips. 

But there was no answering smile from 
the motionless ranks. Every lip was like 
marble ; every face was like adamant. It 
was a terrible farewell. The light went 
out from Brede’s countenance as he walked; 
the curl left his lips ; his face grew pale 
as death, and took on an expression of 


156 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

agony and fear. Step by step his swagger 
left him; step by. step his head fell, his 
shoulders bowed, his body shrank into 
itself. It was as if he were passing to ,his 
execution. 

At three paces from the general they 
halted, and Colonel Silsbee gave the mil- 
itary salute. General Brede answered it, 
and motioned to the boy to pass out with 
him at the opened door. No word was 
spoken. 

On the threshold Brede turned, and 
looked back for an instant into the room 
on the rigid ranks, the stony faces of his 
old companions. Then his pride, his bra- 
vado, his whole heart, gave way ; he put 
his hands to his face, and cried out in 
agony. 

The father and son passed out into the 
darkness ; the carriage-door was closed, and 
the sound of receding wheels was drowned 
in the roaring of the storm. 

No one who saw that white and fright- 
ened face against the background of the 
night or heard that cry has ever forgotten 
it. It was sad, it was just, it was terrible ! 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 157 

It was a lesson that burned itself indelibly 
on the heart of every boy who witnessed 
it. 

They sent for Brightly’s mother, and 
she came ; but the prompt medical atten- 
tion and the unremitting care of good Mrs. 
Silsbee had brought on a favorable change, 
and on her arrival she found her boy al- 
ready on the road to recovery. 

She stayed with him for a time. One day 
during his early convalescence, Brightly 
had been talking to his mother of the troubles 
at the school, and of his own faults and mis- 
takes and recent resolutions. 

It was then that she told him the secret 
of the appointments. Colonel Silsbee had 
intimated to her at the beginning of the 
year that he intended to make her son 
his ranking cadet-commander; but after 
she had thought upon the matter, she re- 
quested him not to do so. She wanted 
Brightly to have still another year at Riv- 
erpark, and had made the request in the 
belief that the hope of future honors and 
the opportunity to win higher rank would 
be an incentive to his ambition, and that 


158 THE RIVER PARK REBELLION. 

their attainment would add zest and va- 
riety to his last year at school. 

Colonel Silsbee, in compliance with her 
request, had appointed to the two ranking 
offices cadets who would certainly leave 
at the end of the year, and had given to 
Brightly the third position. When the 
lad heard this he turned his face away and 
was silent ; but the expression of his coun- 
tenance told the story of regret and humil- 
ity better than words could have told it. 


Time passed at Riverpark. May melted 
softly into June, and June’s days, too, were 
now almost at an end. One by one she 
had counted them out, tinted with emer- 
ald, glowing with sunshine, jewelled with 
raindrops. Indeed, there were scarcely 
ten more of them left in her rose-clasped 
girdle. 

But to forty soldiers of the Riverpark 
battalion the solaces of summer fell ex- 
clusively within the grounds of the acad- 
emy. For them there were no long walks 
in the country, no boating on the river, no 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 1 59 

pilgrimages to the city. Yet they ac- 
knowledged the justness of their pun- 
ishment, and bore it bravely. 

Brightly was with them again, quite re- 
covered from his illness. He studied hard; 
his deportment was beyond question; he 
was a model soldier. He went about 
among the delinquents with cheerful face 
and hearty manner, and inaugurated for 
them such mild pleasures as could be 
enjoyed in delinquency. By counsel 
and example he reconciled the unfor- 
tunates to their fate, and by the very 
strength of his presence diffused among 
them a feeling of hope, of confidence, 
of good-will, which inspired them to 
higher effort, to better work, to nobler 
manhood. 

The last week of the school-year came. 
It was to be, according to custom, a week 
of camp-life. Already the white tents were 
dotting the eastern slope of the lawn ; al- 
ready the schoolroom was deserted and 
the recitation-rooms were empty; the sen- 
tinels were pacing their beats through 
shade and sunshine, and the grounds of 


l60 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

Riverpark were alive with bodies of mov- 
ing troops. 

It was the afternoon of the first day- 
in camp, and the hour for dress-parade. 
Many people had come up from the city 
to witness the evolutions of the troops, 
and the east porch was bright with the 
summer costumes of the ladies who had 
gathered there. 

Brightly, marching in the ranks, felt a 
sudden, sharp pang of regret. If he were 
only adjutant to-day ! if he could only feel 
the weight of his plume, see his sword 
flashing in the sunshine, hear his voice 
in words of command! It was such a 
splendid place, — that post of adjutant; 
the ceremonial set down for him was so 
knightly, so dignified, so grand ! The 
folly of disobedience and revolt impressed 
itself upon him even more at that moment 
than it had done during the hard weeks of 
his punishment. 

Another thing worried and perplexed 
him. Something was going on among 
the boys that they were keeping hid 
from him. There were secret confer- 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. l6l 

ences that he had unwittingly disturbed, 
whispered words that were not meant 
for his ears ; once a paper was whisked 
suddenly out of his sight to which some 
one had been just in the act of affixing 
his signature. 

He hoped that there was no new mis- 
chief brewing; he could not quite bring 
himself to believe that, under the calm- 
ness and good discipline of the time, 
rebellion was again struggling for an out- 
break. 

But the dress-parade was on. The boys 
had never drilled better. Their white- 
gloved hands moved in perfect unison, and 
the points of their bayonets flashed into 
line through the sunlight as quickly and 
sharply as a lightning-stroke. Every one 
admired and praised the movements. 

At that point in the military ceremonial 
where the adjutant faces to the command- 
ing officer and gives him the result of the 
orderly sergeant’s reports, something un- 
usual occurred. 

Finkelton was acting as adjutant. The 
point of his sword was still all but touch- 


1 62 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION, \ 

ing the ground, and the words of the 
report were scarcely out of his mouth, 
when Major Drumlist, who was in com- 
mand, said, — 

“ Publish your Orders, sir.” 

Finkelton faced to the battalion again, 
sheathed his sword, drew a paper from 
his belt, unfolded it, gave the command : 
“ Attention to orders ! ” and began to read. 

Headquarters, Riverpark Academy. 

June SO, 1S6-. 

SPECIAL ORDER, NO. 21. 

In consideration of the excellent order and high 
standing which have recently been maintained by 
the cadets of Riverpark, a general amnesty is hereby 
proclaimed in favor of all offenders. All delinquen- 
cies are cancelled to this date, and all delinquents are 
hereby absolved from further punishment or restriction 
on account of past offences. 

By order of the Principal, 

Col. Jonas Silsbee. 

J. R. Finkelton, 

Acting First Lieut, and Adjt . 


It was a full half-minute before the 
boys in the ranks realized the great good 
fortune that had fallen on them. Then 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 


163 

they all seemed to discover it at once. A 
shout went up as from a single throat. 
Caps were tossed wildly into the air. 
There was cheering, hand-shaking, excited 
laughter, enthusiasm beyond control. To 
those forty delinquents it was the same 
as giving sudden freedom to a caged 
wild bird. 

Plumpy, whose irrepressible spirits had 
made it necessary, since the very begin- 
ning of the year, that he should dwell in 
seclusion at Riverpark, was almost con- 
vulsed with delight. He leaped and waved 
his cap and shouted, until the boys near- 
est to him in the ranks felt obliged to re- 
sort to their customary method of laying 
him down on his back and sitting on him 
to repress his wild enthusiasm. 

When order had been partially restored 
in the ranks, the major turned and saluted 
Colonel Silsbee, who had been standing 
near him, with folded arms, enjoying the 
scene quietly, but intensely. The colonel 
returned the salute, and advanced to ad- 
dress the troops. 

“ Soldiers of the Riverpark battalion,” 


1 64 THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 

he said, “ I have to-day received a petition 
signed by every cadet in the school save 
one. I have read it with great pleasure ; 
for it shows me that you appreciate sol- 
dierly efforts to regain the standing lost 
through an unhappy error. So do I ap- 
preciate them ; and it will not detract one 
whit from the strength and virtue of your 
petition to tell you that I had already de- 
cided, before receiving it, to do that which 
you request. I do it very cheerfully ; I am 
glad to confer honor upon one whom you 
yourselves have designated as the first 
soldier and gentleman among you.” 

Colonel Silsbee saluted the major, and 
the major saluted the acting adjutant, and 
said, * — 

Publish your Order, sir.” 

Clear and resonant came Finkelton’s 
voice : 


Headquarters, Riverpark Academy. 
June 20 , 186- . 

SPECIAL ORDER, NO. 2 2. 

Cadet Horace E. Brightly is hereby restored to 
the rank of First Lieutenant and Adjutant of the 
Riverpark Battalion, his commission to date from 


A GENERAL AMNESTY. 1 65 

to-day. He will proceed immediately to the exercise 
of the duties of said office, and will be respected 
and obeyed accordingly. 

By order of the Principal, 

Col. Jonas Silsbee. 

J. R. Finkelton, 

Acting First Lient. a?id Adjt. 

What a shout went up then ! No one 
ever heard anything like it before. They 
cheered till they were hoarse. Those who 
were near enough to Brightly hugged him 
frantically, and those who were not near 
enough reached out their muskets to touch 
bayonets with him. They laughed — why, 
some of them laughed till they cried. 

Brightly himself was completely overcome 
by joy at his restoration, and pride in the 
applause of his comrades. Colonel Sils- 
bee’s face was so radiant with pleasure 
that no one noticed the big teardrops that 
glistened on his cheeks. 

How they ever got the battalion to at- 
tention again no one knew. But they 
did get the boys to observe order at last, 
and the dress parade closed with all its 
military pomp and display. The jubilant 


1 66 


THE RIVERPARK REBELLION. 


ranks were broken, the bright-faced ladies 
walked slowly away, and the sweet sun- 
shine of June rested upon the earth in 
radiant splendor. But oh the sweeter 
sunshine of happiness in fourscore boy- 
ish hearts! 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 






A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. 

Hoeing corn is not very hard work for 
one who is accustomed to it, but the cir- 
cumstances of the hoeing may make the 
task an exceedingly laborious one. They 
did so in Joe Gaston’s case. Joe Gaston 
thought he had never in his life before 
been put to such hard and disagreeable 
work. 

In the first place, the ground had been 
broken up only that spring, and it was 
very rough and stony. Next, the field 
was on a western slope, and the rays of 
the afternoon sun shone squarely on it. 
It was an unusually oppressive day, too, 
for the last of June. 

Finally, and chiefly: Joe was a four- 
teen-year-old boy, fond of sport and of 


170 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

companionship, and he was working there 
alone. 

Leaning heavily on the handle of his 
hoe, Joe gazed pensively away to the west. 
At the foot of the slope lay a small lake, 
its unruffled surface reflecting with start- 
ling distinctness the foliage that lined its 
shores, and the two white clouds that hung 
above in the blue sky. 

Through a rift in the hills could be 
seen, far away, the line of purple moun- 
tains that lay beyond the west shore of 
the Hudson River. 

“ It aint fair! ” said Joe, talking aloud to 
himself, as he sometimes did. “ I don’t 
have time to do anything but just work, 
work, work. Right in the middle of sum- 
mer, too, when you can have the most 
fun of any time in the year, if you only 
had a chance to get it ! There ’s berry- 
ing and bee-hunting and swimming and 
fishing and — and lots of things.” 

The look of pensiveness on Joe’s face 
changed into one of longing. 

“ Fishing ’s awful good now,” he contin- 
ued; “but I don’t get a chance to go, 


1 



Leaning heavily on the handle of iiis iioe, Joe gazed 
PENSIVELY AWAY TO THE WEST. Page 170. 




^7 

































THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. iyi 

unless I go without asking, and even then 
I dassent carry home the fish.” 

After another minute of reflection he 
turned his face toward the upland, where, 
in the distance, the white porch and 
gables of a farmhouse were visible through 
an opening between two rows of orchard 
trees. 

“ I guess I ’ll just run down to the pond 
a few minutes, and see if there ’s any 
fish there. It aint more’n three o’clock ; 
Father’s gone up to Morgan’s with that 
load of hay, and he won’t be home before 
five o’clock. I can get back and hoe a lot 
of corn by that time.” 

He cast his eyes critically toward the 
sun, hesitated for another minute, and 
then, shouldering his hoe, started down 
the hill toward the lake ; but before he 
had gone half-way to the water’s edge he 
stopped and stood still, nervously chewing 
a spear of June-grass, and glancing alter- 
nately back at the cornfield and forward 
to the tempting waters of the lake. 

“ I don’t care ! ” he said at last. “ I 
can’t help it if it aint right. If Father’d 


I72 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

only let me go a-fishing once in a while, I 
wouldn’t want to sneak off. It’s his fault; 
’cause I ’ve got to fish, and that ’s all there 
is about it.” 

In a swampy place near by he dug 
some angle-worms for bait. Then, taking 
a pole and line from the long grass behind 
a I02:, he skirted the shore for a short 
distance, climbed out on the body of a 
fallen tree that lay partly in the water, and 
flung off his line. 

Joe had not long to wait. The lazy 
motion of the brightly painted float on 
the smooth surface of the lake gave place 
to a sudden swinging movement. Then 
the small end dipped till only the round 
red top was visible. In the next instant 
that too disappeared, and the pole curved 
till the tip of it almost touched the water. 

For a second only Joe played with his 
victim. Then, with a quick, steady pull, 
he drew the darting, curving, shining fish 
from its home, and landed it among the 
weeds on the shore. 

Flushed with delight, he hastened to 
cast his line again into the pool. Scarcely 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. 173 

a minute later he pulled out another 
fish. It seemed to be an excellent day 
for the sport. 

Indeed, he had never before known the 
fish to bite so well. They kept him busy 
baiting his hook and drawing them in. 

He was in the high tide of enjoyment. 
The cornfield was forgotten. 

Suddenly he became aware that some 
one was standing behind him among the 
low bushes on the shore. He turned to 
see who it was. There, confronting him, 
a frown on his face, stood Joe’s father. 

The pole in the boy’s hands dropped 
till the tip of it splashed into the water; 
his face turned red and then pale, and 
there was a strange weakness in his knees. 

He drew his line in slowly, wound it 
about the pole, and stepped from the log 
to the shore. As yet no word had been 
said by either father or son, but Joe had 
a vague sense that it was for him to speak 
first 

“ I thought,” he stammered, “ that I ’d 
come down and see — and see if — if the 
fish was biting to-day — ” 


174 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


“Well,” said his father, grimly, “are 
they biting? ” 

“ They Ve bit first-rate,” responded the 
boy, quickly. “ I ’ve got fourteen in this 
little puddle here.” 

“ Throw them back into the pond,” 
commanded Mr. Gaston. 

Joe bent over, and taking the fish one 
by one from the little pool of water where 
he had placed them, he tossed them 
lightly into the lake. He came to one 
that, badly wounded, was floating on its 
side. 

“ ’Taint any use throwing that one 
back,” he said. “ It ’s — ” 

“ Throw it back ! ” was the stern com- 
mand. 

Joe threw it back. When this task was 
completed, Mr. Gaston said, — 

“ Have you got your knife in your 
pocket, Joseph?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Cut me a whip, then, — a beech one ; 
you ’ll find a good one on that sapling.” 

Joe took his knife and cut from the 
sapling indicated a long, slender branch. 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. 175 

He trimmed it and gave it to his father. 
He well knew the use to which it was to 
be put; and although his spirit rebelled, 
though he felt that he did not really 
deserve the punishment, he obeyed with- 
out a word. 

“Joseph,” said his father, “do you re- 
member my warning you last week not to 
go fishing again without my permission, 
and my telling you that if you did, I 
should whip you ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, I suppose you expect me to keep 
my word % ? ” 

Joe said nothing. 

Mr. Gaston stood for another moment 
in anxious thought. He did not wish to 
whip the boy, surely. Though he was out- 
wardly a cold man, he had all a father’s 
affection for Joe; but would he not fail 
of his duty if he did not punish him for 
his disobedience? 

“Joseph,” he said, “can you think of 
any better remedy than whipping ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“What is it?” 


176 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 

“Well, if you’d just let me go fishing 
once in a while, — say Saturday after- 
noons, — I ’d never think of running away 
to go, — never.” 

“ That is, if I allow you to do what you 
choose, you won’t be disobeying me when 
you do it ? Is that the idea ? ” 

“Yes, sir, something like that.” 

Joe felt that there was a difference, how- 
ever, but he could not at that moment ex- 
plain it. Besides, he wished to take the op- 
portunity to air other grievances, of which 
heretofore he had never ventured to speak. 

“ I don’t have privileges like other boys, 
anyway,” he continued. “ Tom Brown 
don’t have to work every day in the week, 
and he can go to town every Saturday if 
he wants to, and go to fairs, and have 
pocket-money to spend ; and I don’t have 
anything, not even when I earn it. And 
Mr. Dolliver lets his Jim take his horse 
and go riding whenever he feels like it; 
but I aint allowed to go anywhere, nor 
do anything that other boys do ! ” 

Joe paused, breathless and in much 
excitement. 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. 1 77 

Mr. Gaston said, “ It ’s your duty to 
obey your parents, no matter if they can’t 
give you all the pleasures that some other 
boys have. You are not yet old enough 
to set up your judgment against ours. 
We must govern you as we think best.” 

Again there was a minute’s silence. 
Then the father said, “Joseph, I had 
intended to whip you ; but it ’s a hard and 
unpleasant duty, and I ’m inclined to try 
you once more without it, if you ’ll apolo- 
gize and make a new promise not to go 
fishing again without my permission.” 

“ I ’ll apologize,” replied Joe, “ but I 
won’t promise.” 

“Why not?” 

“ ’Cause you would n’t give me your 
permission, and then I ’d break the prom- 
ise. That ’s the way it always goes.” 

“Very well; you may take your choice, 
— either the promise or the whipping. I 
can’t argue with you about it.” 

Joe was excited and angry. He did 
not take time to think, but answered hotly 
that his father could whip him if he 
wished. Mr. Gaston tested the whip, 
-12 


178 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

cutting the air with it once or twice. 
It made a cruel sound. 

“ I want you to remember, after it is 
over,” he said slowly, “ that it was your 
choice, and not my pleasure. Stand out 
here, and turn your back to me.” 

Joe’s chastisement followed. It was a 
severe one. The pain was greater than 
Joe had expected. The shock of the first 
blow was still fresh when the second one 
came, and this was followed up by half-a- 
dozen more in rapid succession. 

“ Now,” said the father, when it was 
over, throwing the whip aside, “ you may 
go back to the cornfield and go to work.” 

Without a word, and indeed with mind 
and heart too full for utterance, the boy 
shouldered his hoe and started back up 
the hill. Mr. Gaston, taking a path which 
skirted the field, walked slowly toward 
home. His mind too was filled with 
conflicting emotions. 

He felt that he was striving to do his 
duty by the boy, to bring him up to 
honest, sober manhood. Yet for the first 
time he began to wonder whether the 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING . 179 

course he was pursuing with him was just 
the right one to lead to that end. 

He paused, and looked across the field 
to where Joe, who had reached his old 
place, was bending over a long row of 
corn ; and his heart filled with fatherly 
sympathy for the lad in spite of his way- 
wardness and obstinacy. The father felt 
that he would like to reason with Joe 
again more gently, and started to cross the 
field for that purpose. But fearing that 
Joe might think that he had repented of 
his severity, he turned back and made 
his way, with a heavy heart, toward home. 

As for Joe, his anger settled before 
an hour had passed into a feeling of 
strong and stubborn resentment. That 
his punishment had been too severe and 
humiliating he had no doubt. That he 
had long been treated unfairly by his 
father and had been governed with undue 
strictness he fully believed. 

Slowly, as he pondered over it, there 
came into his mind a plan to put an 
end to it all, — a plan which, without fur- 
ther consideration, he resolved to adopt. 


i8o 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


This, he was determined, should be the 
last whipping he would receive at his 
father’s hands. 

He was interrupted in his brooding and 
his plans by a young girl, who came down 
toward him between the rows of spring- 
ing corn. It was his sister Jennie, who 
was two years younger than he. 

She looked up at him, as she advanced, 
with mingled curiosity and sympathy in 
her expressive eyes and face. 

“Joe,” she said, in an awe-stricken voice, 
“ did Father whip you ? ” 

“ What makes you think he whipped 
me?” asked Joe. 

“ Because, I — I heard him tell Mother 
so.” 

“ What did Mother say ? ” 

“ Oh, she cried, and she said she was 
sorry it had to be done. Did he whip 
you hard, Joe?” 

“ Pretty hard, but it ’s the last time. 
He’ll never whip me again, Jennie.” 

“ Are you going to be a better boy ? ” 

“No, a worse one.” 

Jennie stood for a moment silent and 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. l8l 

wondering at this paradoxical statement. 
Then an idea flashed into her mind. 

“Joe!” she cried, “you — you’re not 
going to run away?” 

“ That ’s just what I am going to do. 
I ’ve stood it here as long as I can.” 

“O Joe! what’ll Father say?” 

“ It don’t make much difference what 
he says. I’m goin’ to — say, Jennie! 
don’t you go and tell now, ’fore I get 
started. You wouldn’t do as mean a 
thing as that, would you, Jen? Promise 
now ! ” 

“I — I — maybe if Father knew you ’d 
made up your mind to go, he ’d treat 
you better.” 

“ No, he would n’t. Look here, Jen! if 
you say anything about it I’ll — say now, 
you won’t, will you ? ” 

“ N — no, not if you don’t want me to, 
but I ’m awful scared about it. What ’ll 
Mother say ? ” asked the girl, wiping from 
her eyes the fast-falling tears. 

“That’s where the trouble is, Jen,” 
replied the boy, leaning on the handle of 
his hoe, and gazing reflectively off to the 


1 82 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


hills. “ I hate to leave Mother, she ’s 
good to me; but Father and I can’t get 
along together after what’s happened to- 
day, that’s plain.” 

“ And won’t you ever come back again?” 
asked Jennie, plaintively. 

“ Not for seven years,” answered Joe ; 
“ then I ’ll be twenty-one, an’ my own 
boss, and I can go fishing whenever I 
feel like it.” 

“ O Joe!” Jennie’s tears fell still faster. 
“Joe! I ’m afraid — what — made you — 
tell me?” 

“You asked me!” 

“But I didn’t — didn’t want you to tell 
me anything — anything so dreadful ! ” 

From the direction of the house came 
the sound of the supper-bell. Joe shoul- 
dered his hoe again; Jennie rose from her 
seat on a rock, and together they walked 
slowly home. On the way Joe exacted 
from Jennie a faithful promise that she 
would tell nothing about his plan. 

At the supper-table Joe was silent and 
moody, and ate little. After doing the 
portion of the chores that fell to his lot, 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING. 183 

he went at once to his room. His back 
still smarted and ached from the whip- 
ping; his mind was still troubled, and 
indignation and rebellion still ruled in 
his breast. 

Before he slept, his mother came to see 
that he was safely in bed, and to tuck him 
in for the night. She knew that this had 
been a very bitter day for him, and al- 
though she feared he had deserved his 
punishment, she grieved for him, and suf- 
fered with him from the bottom of her 
heart. 

It was with more than the customary 
tenderness that she tucked the bed-cloth- 
ing around him, and kissed him good- 
night. 

“ Good-night, Mother ! ” he said, looking 
up through the dim light of the room into 
her face ; “ good-night ! ” 

He did not let go of her hand ; and 
when he tried to say something more, he 
broke down and burst into tears. 

So she knelt down by the side of the 
bed, and smoothing his hair back from his 
forehead, talked gently to him for a long 


1 84 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

time. After more good-night kisses she 
left him, and went back to her never- 
ending work. 

This, for Joe, was the hardest part of 
leaving home ; for he was very fond of 
his mother, and knew that his going would 
almost break her heart. Still, now that he 
had resolved to go, he would not change 
his mind, even for his mother’s sake. 

It was long before Joe fell asleep, and 
even then he was beset by unpleasant 
dreams, so that his rest availed him but 
little. 

Before daybreak he arose, dressed him- 
self, gathered into a bundle a few articles 
of clothing, a few of his choicest treasures, 
and a little money that he had earned and 
saved, and then on tiptoe left his room. 

At the end of the hall a door was 
opened, and a little white-robed figure 
glided out and into his arms. It was 
Jennie. 

“O Joe!” she whispered, “are you 
really going ? ” 

“ ’Sh ! Jen, don’t make any noise. Yes, 
I ’m going. There, don’t cry — good-by ! ” 


THE RESULT OF A WHIPPING . 185 

He bent down and kissed her, but she 
could not speak for the sobs that choked 
her. After holding her arms around his 
neck for a moment, she vanished into 
her room. 

Joe went softly down the stairs, and out 
at the kitchen door. It was cool and 
refreshing in the open air. In the east 
the sky was beginning to put on the 
gray of morning. 

Jennie, looking down through the dusk 
from the window of her room, saw Joe 
walk down the path to the road gate, then 
turn, as if some new thought had struck 
him, and cross the yard to the barn, enter- 
ing it by the stable door. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed the child to herself, 
in a frightened whisper, “oh! he’s going 
to take the horse ; he ’s going to take 
Charlie ! ” 

She sank down on the floor, and cov- 
ered her face with her hands. She did 
not want to see so dreadful a thing 
happen. But curiosity finally got the 
better of her fear, and she looked out 
again just in time to see some one lead 


i8 6 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


the gray horse from the stable, mount 
him, and ride away into the dusk. 

“ O Joe ! ” she murmured. “ O Charlie! 
Oh, what will Father say now ! Is n’t it 
dreadful, dreadful ! ” 

But though she did not know it, the 
person whom Jennie saw riding away 
into the dusk on old Charlie’s back was 
not Joe. 


CHAPTER II. 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE ? 

Joe’s errand to the stable on the morn- 
ing when he went away was not what his 
sister Jennie supposed. He went there 
only to say farewell to the horse that had 
been his friend and companion since he 
was a little child. He loved “ Old Charlie,” 
and could not go away without caressing 
him and saying good-by. 

The great gray horse, wakened by the 
opening of the stable door, rose clumsily 
to his feet, and stared, a little frightened, 
across his manger toward the visitor who 
came so early. 

“Hello, Charlie!” said Joe, softly, feel- 
ing his way forward in the darkness of the 
stable, and laying his hand on the horse’s 
forehead. “ I ’m going away, Charlie ; I 
thought I ’d come and say good-by to 
you.” 


1 88 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 

He had talked to the horse in this way, 
as to a human being, ever since he could 
remember. To him there was nothing ab- 
surd in it. Charlie, recognizing his young 
master, pushed his nose forward and 
rubbed it against Joe’s breast. 

“ I ’m going away,” repeated the boy, 
“ an’ it is n’t likely we ’ll ever see each other 
again.” 

He leaned over the manger, pulled the 
horse’s head down to his breast, and laid 
his cheek against it for a moment. Then 
he went out at the stable door, shut and 
latched it, hurried across the barnyard and 
out upon the grassy expanse at the side of 
the highway. 

At the turn in the road Joe looked back. 
He could see the white front of the old 
homestead showing dimly against the dark 
shadows where night lingered. It looked 
so serene, so quiet, so comfortable ! 

He brushed away the tears that started 
to his eyes, choked down the sob that rose 
in his throat, and turning once more, 
walked rapidly away toward the east. Al- 
most before Joe had turned into the road 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE? 189 

from the bars, a man crept cautiously from 
the shadows behind the barn, and advanced 
to the stable door. He was short and 
thickly built, and very bow-legged. 

“ Close call for me, that there was,” he 
said to himself. “ Another minute, an’ 
I ’d ’a’ been inside o’ that there stable 
door, an’ ’e ’d ’a’ come plump onto me ; 
that ’s w’at ’e ’d ’a’ done. Queer thing, 
anyway. W’y did n’t ’e take the ’oss, I 
want to know, an’ not be scarin’ honest 
folk out o’ their seving senses that way for 
nothink ? ” 

The man unlatched the stable door, 
opened it noiselessly, and went in. 

It was not many minutes before he 
came out again, leading Old Charlie, 
and stroking him in order to keep him 
quiet. 

The horse was bridled, and a blanket 
was strapped over his back in lieu of a 
saddle. The animal was evidently suspi- 
cious and frightened, and moved about 
nervously, snorting a little, and with ears 
pricked up and eyes wide open. Once he 
snorted so loudly that the bow-legged man, 


190 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


glancing uneasily toward the farmhouse, 
made haste to close the stable door and 
lead the horse to the bars, where he could 
more readily mount him. 

“ Nothing venture, nothing ’ave,” he said, 
as he leaped clumsily to the beast’s back. 
Then, having walked the horse for a few 
rods, he struck Charlie with his hand, and 
rode away rapidly in the direction which 
Joe had taken. 

Very soon, however, he turned the 
horse’s head into a grassy cart-road lead- 
ing into the woods which he had care- 
fully explored the previous day. This he 
followed — Old Charlie’s smooth-shod 
feet leaving no track on the turf — until 
it brought him out upon a little-travelled 
highway about a mile distant. 

Here the thief cut a sharp little stick 
from a tree, and urging Old Charlie to a 
rapid gait, galloped on ten miles or more, 
until daylight had fully broken. Then he 
took refuge once more in the woods, and 
breakfasted out of a little bag of plunder 
which he had brought from the Gaston 
farm. 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE? 


191 


“ A good start, Callipers, me boy,” he said 
to himself. “ You mind your bloomin’ eye 
an’ you ’re all right. It don’t do to lose 
your ’ead an’ go too fast, or go too fast an’ 
lose your ’ead.” 

In the mean time, back at the farm the 
cattle had begun to stir about in the barn- 
yard with the lifting of the night shadows. 
It was broad daylight before the hired 
man went up through the gate with two 
gleaming tin pails in his hands. Smoke 
rose from the chimney of the farmhouse 
kitchen ; the household was astir. 

Every one was about but Joe. His 
mother had not yet called him. She 
thought to let him sleep a little later than 
usual. Yesterday had been such a bitter 
day for him ! 

“Where’s Joe?” asked Mr. Gaston, 
coming into the kitchen. “ Is n’t he up 
yet ? ” 

“ No,” replied fhe mother. “ He was n’t 
feeling very well last night, and I thought 
I would n’t call him till breakfast was all 
ready.” 

“ Mother,” said the farmer, “ I ’m afraid 


I92 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


you ’re indulging the boy in lazy habits. 
He oughtn’t to be left in bed later just 
because he misbehaved yesterday.” 

“Well,” she said, “ he was really feeling 
almost sick last night.” 

Little Jennie, whose eyes were red from 
weeping, and whose face was pale with 
anxiety, listened timidly to the conver- 
sation, and then stole softly from the 
room. 

What would happen when it was found 
that Joe had gone? What would happen 
when it was found that he had taken Old 
Charlie ? This was the burden of her 
thought and fear. 

Whatever it might be, she knew she had 
not the courage to face it, so she crept 
away to hide herself and to weep out her 
grief. 

“ If Joe was sick last night,” the farmer 
went on, “ it was just because he was dis- 
obedient and had to be whipped. I hope 
he ’s in a better frame of mind this morn- 
ing. It is very painful for me to punish 
him. I wish I might — ” 

The outside door opened, and the hired 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE ? 


193 


man entered, interrupting Mr. Gaston’s 
speech. He seemed to be troubled and 
excited. 

“ Have you had Charlie out this morn- 
ing, Mr. Gaston ? ” he asked. 

“ Charlie ? What Charlie ? ” 

“ Why, Charlie the horse. He is n’t in 
the stable.” 

“ Not in the stable ? ” 

“ No, sir. An’ I can’t find him no- 
wheres. The bridle ’s gone, too, an’ the 
blanket an’ the surcingle.” 

“ Oh, dear me ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, 
dropping the toast on the hearth in her 
excitement. 

“ Who put him up last night ? ” asked 
the farmer. 

“ I did,” replied the hired man. 

“ Did you tie him fast ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And shut the stable door ? ” 

“Yes, sir; but I asked Joe to water 
him after he ’d had his feed. Joe often 
does that, you know.” 

“Call Joe!” the farmer said sharply 
to his wife. 


13 


194 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


Mrs. Gaston hurried upstairs to the 
door of Joe’s room. 

She knocked, but there was no answer. 
She called, but no one responded. Then 
she opened the door and entered. 

The bed was vacant. She looked into 
the closet, behind the trunk, under the bed ; 
but no boy was to be found. 

The truth suddenly forced itself into 
Mrs. Gaston’s mind. Joe had gone — 
run away ! — left his home and her ! She 
grew suddenly weak, and sat down upon 
the bed till her strength should return to 
her. 

Joe gone? She could hardly believe it. 
How could her only boy leave her ? How 
could she live without him ? 

It occurred to her that he could not yet 
have gone far, and that he might be found 
and brought back before it was too late. 
She hurried from the room, flew down 
the stairs, and burst into the dining-room. 

“ Go after him ! ” she exclaimed. “ Send 
for him quick, before any harm comes 
to him ! He ’s gone — he ’s run away, 
he ’s — ’’ 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE? 1 95 

“ Who ’s gone ? ” questioned Mr. Gaston, 
dazed by his wife’s words and manner. 
“ What is the matter with everybody this 
morning ? ” 

“ Joe ! Joe ’s gone ! Follow him, Father, 
do, and bring him back ! Take Charlie 
and follow him at once. He can’t be far ! 
Take Charlie and — Oh ! Charlie ’s gone, 
too — they ’ve gone, they ’ve gone — ” 

“Together!” said Mr. Gaston, sinking 
into a chair, and staring across the table 
at his wife, who was already seated and 
silent, dumb with the revelation of what 
appeared to be both mystery and crime. 

The hired man, after witnessing for a 
moment the agony apparent on the faces 
of both father and mother, opened the 
door softly and went out. 

Mrs. Gaston was the first to recover her 
voice. 

“Father,” she said, “do you think Joe 
took the horse ? ” 

“ It looks very much like it,” he said. 
“ They ’re both gone.” 

“Yes; but they may not have gone 
together, after all. Or if they have gone 


196 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


together, perhaps Joe had some errand that 
we don’t know about, and will come back 
soon. Maybe he has n’t gone at all, but is 
somewhere about the place now. Don’t 
let ’s accuse him before we know ! ” 

“You are right; we’ll find the proof 
first.” 

Mr. Gaston went to the door and called 
the hired man. 

“ Ralph,” he said, “ don’t say anything 
for the present about this. We think 
some mistake has been made. But you 
may just make a quiet search for the horse 
around the farm and the neighborhood, 
and let me know if you find any trace of 
him. 

“ Now,” he continued, turning back into 
the house, “ we will search for evidence. 
Let us go first to Joe’s room and see what 
we can find there.” 

Together the father and mother moun- 
ted the stairs to the little east room, and 
looked about. 

On a stand in the corner Mrs. Gaston 
discovered something that, in her former 
hurried search, had escaped her notice. 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE ? 197 

It was a note in Joe's handwriting, written 
carefully in pencil, and it read as follows : 

Dear Mother, — I am going away. Father 
is too hard on me. I will come back to see you 
when I am twenty-one if Father will let me. 
Forgive me for making you feel bad, and for 
being an ungrateful boy. Good-by, 

Joe. 

She read the note, handed it to her hus- 
band, and, sinking into a chair, burst into 
tears. 

When Mr. Gaston had read it he went 
to the open window and stood for many 
minutes, looking away, thoughtfully and 
sternly, to the distant hills. 

“ Father,” sobbed his wife, “ you will go 
after' Joe, won’t you ? You ’ll find him, and 
bring him back, won’t you ? ” 

It seemed to her a long time before he 
answered her. 

“ I believe,” he said at last, “ that when 
a boy runs away from a good home, it is 
better, as a rule, to let him go, and find 
out his mistake ; he ’s sure to find it out in 
a very short time. If he is followed and 


198 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

threatened and forced, he will come back 
sullen and angry, and will make up his 
mind to go again at the first chance.” 

“ But if he ’s followed and reasoned with 
and persuaded ? ” said the mother, appeal- 
ingly. 

“ If he is followed and reasoned with and 
persuaded,” answered the father, “ he’ will 
get a great notion of his own importance. 
He will believe that he has gained his 
point, and will come back impudent and 
overbearing.” 

“ But think what harm may come to 
him, — what suffering ! ” 

“ Probably he will suffer. There ’s no 
easy way to learn the lesson he must learn. 
If I could save him from the suffering that 
his folly is sure to bring on him, and at the 
same time feel sure that he has really 
repented and is bound to do better, I 
would go to the end of the earth to find 
him. But we ’ll talk about that later. 
There ’s no doubt now that Joe ’s gone 6 
Let us see if we can find out anything 
about the horse. It will make a difference 
if he has taken him.” 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE ? 


199 


But the good woman could not yet give 
up her appeal in behalf of her boy. 

“You won’t be too harsh with him, Fa- 
ther? You won’t allow him to suffer 
too much ? % If he don’t come back soon, 
you ’ll go and find him, won’t you, — if he 
don’t come back by the end of next week ? 
He is n’t strong, you know, and he ’s so 
sensitive. And I can’t think he intended 
to do anything wrong; I can’t think it ! I 
will not believe it ! ” 

They were passing through the upper 
hall to the head of the staircase. When 
they came ‘near to the dark closet that 
opened on the landing, they were startled 
by the strange noise that proceeded from 
behind the door, — a noise as of some one 
sobbing. 

Mr. Gaston threw open the closet door 
and peered into the darkness, while his 
wife stood behind him, half-frightened, 
looking over his shoulder. 

“ Why ! ” he exclaimed, when his eyes 
had adapted themselves to the inner gloom, 
“ it ’s Jennie ! ” 

“ Oh, dear me ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, 
in another fright. 


200 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


“ Jennie,” said Mr. Gaston, sternly, “ come 
right out. What does this mean ? ” 

Poor Jennie, her eyes red with weeping 
and with anguish written all over her tear- 
marked face, rose from her seat on an old 
chest, and came into the light of the hall. 

She began to sob again as though her 
heart would break. 

“ What does this mean ? ” repeated her 
father. 

“N — nothing,” sobbed Jennie, “only 
I — I—” 

“ See here ! ” exclaimed her father, “ did 
you know that Joe had gone away?” 

“I — I was afraid he had.” 

“ Did you know he intended to go ? ” 
asked her father, sternly. 

“ Why, he — he told me yesterday that 
he — was — ” 

“ Going to run away ? ” 

“Ye — yes.” 

“O Jennie!” exclaimed her mother, 
“why didn’t you tell us as soon as you 
knew it, so that we might stop him ? ” 

“ He made — made me promise not to ! 
I could n’t help it.” 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE ? 


201 


Little by little, in answer to repeated 
questions, the narration broken by many 
sobs, the child gave the story of the pre- 
vious day’s interview with Joe. 

“ Jennie,” said Mr. Gaston, finally, “ have 
* you seen Joe this morning ? Answer me 
truly.” 

“ Ye — yes, Father.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ Here, in the hall.” 

“ At what hour ? ” 

“ I don’t — don’t know. It was before 
daylight. He was just starting. I bade 
him good-by, and went back into my 
room, and he went on downstairs.” 

Jennie was lavish of her information this 
time. The questions were getting danger- 
ously near a point she dreaded, and she 
hoped there would be no more of them. 

Alas ! The very next question shook 
the foundation of her guilty knowledge of 
Joe’s apparent crime. 

“ Jennie,” asked her father, “did you see 
Joe this morning after he left the house ? ” 

“ Yes, Father; I looked out o’ the win- 
dow, an’ saw him go down the path.” 


202 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


“ Which way did he go when he got to 
the road ? ” asked her mother, eagerly. 

“ He — he went off that way,” replied 
Jennie, faintly, “ east.” 

“ He went east, Father ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Gaston, — “east toward the moun- % 
tains, not west toward the river. It will 
be easier to find him, you know. And he 
did n’t take the horse ; you see he did n’t 
take Charlie!” 

“ Wait,” said Mr. Gaston, sternly. “ Jen- 
nie, tell us the whole story. Do you mean 
to say that you saw Joe go down the path 
and out at the gate, and walk away toward 
the east ? ” 

Half-unconsciously she made a final 
attempt to save Joe. 

“ No, Father, he turned around and 
came back up the path toward the house.” 

The mother asked no more questions. 
She instinctively felt that her worst fears 
were about to be realized. 

“ Did he come back into the house ? ” 
asked the father, mercilessly. 

“N — no.” 

“ Where did he go ? ” 


WHO TOOK OLD CHARLIE ? 


203 


There was no way out of it. Jennie 
must tell what she had seen. 

“ O Father ! ” she cried, “ he came back 

— and then — he went into the stable.” 

“ Did you see him come out ? ” 

“ No, oh, no ! But I saw him ride out 
through the bars on Old Charlie, and 
away up the road. I did, I saw him. O 
Joe ! Oh, dear me ! Oh, I wish — I wish 

— I was dead ! ” 

The little girl fell to wringing her hands 
and sobbing again with great violence, 
convinced that she had been the victim of 
unhappy circumstances, and that she had 
been a traitor to Joe, whom she loved 
dearly. 

Mrs. Gaston, drawing the child to her, 
sat on the stair-landing and said nothing ; 
but sorrow and sympathy, struggling for 
the mastery in her heart, sent the bitter 
tears afresh to her eyes. 

Over the face of Joe’s father came a look 
that had not been there before. 

“ I shall not follow him, Mother,” he 
said. “ He may have the horse, but he 
must not come back here until he comes 


204 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


in sackcloth and ashes. I am sorry that I 
have lived to see the day when a son of 
mine has come to be little better than a 
common thief.” 

The father had passed down the stairs 
and out at the door, while mother and 
daughter sat long together, mingling their 
tears over the unhappy fate of the boy 
whom both had idolized, and whose strange 
folly had made him, to all intents and 
purposes, an exile from his home. 


CHAPTER III. 


ON THE CANAL. 

It is at Rondout that the Delaware and 
Hudson Canal, reaching across from the 
anthracite-coal regions of Pennsylvania, 
touches tide- water on the Hudson. It is 
here that the bulky canal-boats, having 
discharged their cargoes of coal, turn 
their bows again to the westward. From 
the low-lying lands at the river’s edge the 
mouth of Rondout Creek curves back 
into the hills, forming for miles a safe, 
broad harbor. 

On the northerly shore of the creek is 
the wharf. On the left side of this wharf 
long lines of canal-boats are tied to the 
wharf posts, and fastened one to another. 
On the right, canal stores, blacksmith’s 
shops, and stables extend as far as the eye 
can reach. 


20 6 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


In the early morning, before the activi- 
ties of the day have begun, this wharf is a 
deserted and forbidding place, and on one 
such early morning in September, with 
chill air and cloudy skies, and not even a 
rose tint in the dull east, there was no one 
to be seen throughout the whole length of 
the wharf save one slowly moving boy. 

This boy was so dull and miserable in 
appearance as to be hardly noticeable 
against the general dulness around him. 
His clothing was ragged and dusty, his 
shoes were out at both heel and toe. The 
battered hat, pulled well down over his 
eyes, shaded a haggard and a hungry face. 
His mother herself would scarcely have 
recognized this scarecrow as Joe Gaston. 

What his hardships and sufferings had 
been since that June morning when he 
angrily left his home, his appearance told 
more eloquently than words can describe 
them. Many and many a day he had 
longed for the good and wholesome food 
he knew was on his father’s table. Many 
and many a night, as he lay under some 
unwelcoming roof, or still oftener with 


ON THE CANAL. 


207 


the open sky above him, he had dreamed 
of that gentle mother who used always 
to fold the soft covering over him, and 
give him the good-night kiss. 

But a few days before our meeting with 
him here on the canal Joe had met, on 
the public road, a roving wood-sawyer who 
recognized him. They walked together a 
long way. 

The man, who had sawed wood for Joe’s 
father several times, had been at the 
homestead since Joe’s departure. He 
seemed surprised not to find the horse 
with Joe, and he finally asked the boy 
what he had done with him. 

He was still more surprised when he 
learned that Joe had not had Old Charlie, 
and knew nothing about the theft. But 
poor Joe! It touched him to the quick to 
learn, as he did, that at home he was re- 
garded as a horse-thief. 

It was this that he brooded over now, 
day and night. To think that they should 
accuse him of stealing Old Charlie ! 

Joe had, in his wanderings, followed a 
sort of circle, which had now brought him 


208 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


within a comparatively short distance of 
home; but if, before this, he had thought 
of returning there, the thought was now 
driven from his mind. He felt that he 
could not go back to face this charge 
against him, for who would believe him ? 
It was time to turn his face to the west- 
ward. 

Besides, he had said that he would not 
return until he was twenty-one years old. 
His pride had not yet been enough chas- 
tened by misery to cause him to abandon 
his foolish boast. 

So here he was, on the wharf at Ron- 
dout this raw September morning, seeking 
not so much independence and fortune as 
bread and shelter. 

Joe walked slowly along close to the 
buildings, for the wind that swept down 
the creek was disagreeably cold. An 
occasional raindrop struck his face. He 
was very thinly clad, too, and he could 
not help shivering now and then as he 
pushed his hands deeper into his pockets 
and turned his back for a moment to 
the wind. 


ON THE CANAL . 


209 


He stopped to look at a few loaves of 
bread and a string of sausages that were 
displayed in the window of a cheap store. 
He wondered whether it would be wiser 
to spend his last few pennies for his break- 
fast, or save them for his dinner. 

He had about decided to buy a piece 
of bread, and was waiting for the store to 
be opened for the day, when some one 
accosted him from behind: “Say, you boy!” 

Joe turned and looked at the speaker. 
He was a rather stout, low-browed man, 
with a very red nose and a shaven face, 
upon which a rough stubble of beard had 
begun to grow. 

His pantaloons were supported from 
below by the tops of his rubber boots, 
and suspended from above by a single 
brace, which ran diagonally across the 
breast of his red flannel shirt. 

“ Do you want a job, young fellow ? ” 
continued the man. 

“What kind of a job? ’’asked Joe. 

“ Drivin’.” 

“ Drivin’ what ? ” 

“ Hosses on the canal. My boy got 

14 


210 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


sick las’ night, an’ I ’ve got to git anoth- 
er one. Do ye know anything about 
hosses ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Joe. “ I ’ve driven ’em a 
good deal, and always taken care of ’em.” 

“Well, my boat ’s unloaded, an’ I’m 
ready to pull right out. Wha’ do ye 
say? Go?” 

“ What wages do you pay ? ” asked the 
boy, hesitatingly. 

“ Well, you ’re big an’ smart-lookin’ an’ 
know how to handle hosses, an’ I ’ll give 1 
you extra big pay.” 

Joe’s spirits rose. True, the man looked 
forbidding, and undesirable as a master ; 
but if he paid good wages, the rest might ' 
be endured. 

“Well, what will you pay?” persisted 
the boy. 

“ I ’ll give ye four dollars for the round 
trip, an’ board an’ lodge ye.” 

Joes spirits fell. 

“How long does the trip take?” he 
asked. 

“ Two weeks.” 

“ An’ when do I get my money? ” 


ON THE CANAL. 


21 1 


“ Half at Honesdale, an’ half when you 
git back here.” 

“Well, I don’t know; I—” 

“ Make up your mind quick. If you 
don’t want the job, I ’ll be lookin’ for 
another boy.” 

Joe thought of his penniless condition. 
It might not be long, indeed, before he 
would be starving. Here was a chance 
to obtain at least food and shelter, and 
probably enough to buy an overcoat. 

“Well,” he said, “I’ll go.” 

“ All right. Have you had any break- 
fast?” 

“ No.” 

“ Come along with me, an’ I ’ll give 
you some.” 

Joe’s spirits rose again at the thought 
of breakfast. He followed the man down 
the dock a short distance, then from the 
dock to a canal-boat lying close by, and 
from this boat to another, and still another. 

When the last boat was reached, they 
went down into the cabin, where a colored 
man was cooking food. 

A leaf projecting from the wall was 


212 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


already propped to a horizontal position, 
and on it were a few plates, knives and 
forks, a dish of warmed-up potatoes, a 
slice or two of fried ham, and some bread 
and butter. 

The negro was preparing coffee also. 
The odor of it all was very pleasant to 
Joe as he climbed down the steep cabin 
stairs, and he did not wait long after being 
told to help himself. 

“ I ’ve hired this boy for the trip,” the 
man explained to his cook. “ What ’s 
your name, young feller, anyhow ? ” he 
continued, turning to the boy. 

“ Joe.” 

“What else?” 

“That’s all, — for the present, anyway.” 

“ Oh, I see! Run away, did ye? Well, 
I won’t be so partic’ler. My name’s Ros- 
encamp, — Bill Rosencamp. Cap’n Bill, 
for short. An’ this gentleman’s name,” 
turning to the negro, “ is Blixey. He ’s 
like you ; he ’s only got one name ; but he 
can’t help it, — he never had no other.” 

Blixey laughed immoderately at this, 
and poured the coffee with an unsteady 


ON THE CANAL. 


213 


hand. He seemed to be so weak and 
wavering in all his movements, his eyes 
were so bloodshot, and his utterance so 
thick, that Joe thought he must have 
been drinking; but he had not been, — at 
any rate, not that morning. 

Joe enjoyed his breakfast greatly. 
Though it was a coarse meal, it was the 
best he had eaten for many days, and 
when he was done with it he was ready 
to go to work, and said so. 

Accordingly he was sent to scrub the 
deck, while Blixey washed the dishes, 
and the captain looked after the tow. A 
bustling little tug-boat had already made 
fast to a fleet of empty canal-boats, Rosen- 
camp’s among the number, and was haul- 
ing them up the stream. 

Rondout was now awake. The island 
in the bay was a scene of great activity. 
The clang of heavy machinery and the 
rasping noise of coal sliding on iron sur- 
faces filled the air. Boats were moving 
in all directions. There were a hundred 
people on the wharf, and twice a hundred, 
many of them women and little chil- 


214 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


dren on the decks of the moored canal- 
boats. 

Up the stream the scene became pic- 
turesque. On each side were precipitous 
hills, wooded to the river’s edge, their 
green heights reflected in the still water 
at their feet. There were cement mines 
to be seen, and old white-faced mansions ; 
and half-way up the boat passed under a 
lofty iron bridge across which dashed a 
railway train. 

Notwithstanding the dulness of the sky 
and the occasional falling of raindrops, 
Joe enjoyed the ride • very much. At 
Eddyville the first lock, a tide-lock, bars 
the way, and here the horses and mules 
are kept. 

“ Do you see that stable over there ? ” 
said the captain to Joe. “ My hosses is 
there. You go an’ git ’em. Ask for 
Cap’n Bill’s hosses.” 

Joe did as he was told. After some good- 
natured chaffing on the part of the stable- 
keeper, the raw-boned worn-out horses were 
turned over to him, and the boy appeared 
on the tow-path leading them. 


ON THE CANAL. 


215 


Joe was told that these animals were 
named Jack and Jill. Jack had fallen 
down the bank from the tow-path to the 
river one day, and Jill had come tumbling 
after. Whatever their names had been 
before, this incident had definitely renamed 
them. 

The horses were fastened to the tow- 
line, and the tow-line was attached to the 
timber-head of the boat. Joe was duly 
installed as driver. 

His duties were not at all light. He 
had to walk all the way, and to keep the 
horses going at a good pace, which in 
itself was no easy task. He must keep 
on the inside of the tow-path, so that his 
boat should pass over the tow-lines of the 
loaded boats they met, and must pull up 
sharply when a lock was reached. 

Sometimes, in the vicinity of locks, 
great confusion arose from the crowding 
of boats and the intertangling of tow- 
lines. Then Joe became practically help- 
less. But Captain Bill, after much pushing 
and angry shouting, always managed to 
straighten out matters and get the boat 
under way again. 


21 6 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


At Rosendale there was a long delay. 
Something had gone wrong with the gates 
at the lock. 

Joe was not sorry for this, for it was 
now late in the forenoon, and he was very 
tired from his long tramp. 

Captain Bill had gone off up the wharf to 
a canal store, Blixey was busy in the cabin, 
and the horses were drowsily munching 
oats from baskets tied under their noses. 

A drizzling rain was falling, and Joe 
took shelter under a shed a little back 
from the tow-path while he waited. 

He had not been long there when a big, 
uncouth-looking boy came shambling in 
and sat down on a box near by. 

“Hello!” said the boy. 

“Hello!” responded Joe. 

“ Drivin’ for Bill Rosey ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Better look out for ’im.” 

“ Why?” 

“He’s bad.” 

“ Is that so ? ” 

“ Yes, an’ ugly.” 

“Is he?” 


ON THE CANAL. 


21 7 


“Yes, an’ works you to death. He’s 
used up three boys a’ready; one went 
home yisterday all stove to pieces. I 
would n’t work for ’im ; I quit.” 

Joe was naturally very much startled, 
but he soon found breath to ask, — 

“ Did you work for him once ? ” 

“ Did I ? Well, I should say so.” 

“ What did he do to you ? ” 

“ Not much ; licked me, an’ kicked me, 
an’ robbed me, — that ’s all. Say, what ’s 
he goin’ to pay you ? ” 

“ Four dollars for the round trip.” 
“The thief!” 

“ Why, is n’t that enough ? ” 

“ Enough ! W’y, five dollars was my 
wages for the roun’ trip, an’ another feller 
I knew was to have six ; only we did n’t 
neither of us git no money. Oh, he ’s 
a bad man, he is; you better look out 
fer ’im.” 

The boy rose awkwardly, as if to go. 

“ Well,” said Joe, anxiously, “ I ’ve 
hired out to him now, you know. What 
would you do about it if you was in my 
place ? ” 


218 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


The big boy sat down again more awk- 
wardly, if possible, than he had risen. 

“ I ’ll tell ye jest what I would do,” he 
began earnestly. 

But he never told what it was, and Joe 
never had the benefit of his advice ; for 
at that moment the bony figure of Captain 
Bill appeared at the corner of the shed. 

The jaw of the large boy dropped sud- 
denly, and jumping up from the box he 
made his escape to the tow-path. 

“You’d better git!” shouted the man 
angrily after him. “ What’d he say to 
ye?” he demanded, turning to Joe. 

“He said,” stammered Joe, “he said 
that he used to work for you.” 

“ Did ’e say I used to lick ’im an’ kick 
’im, an’ try to knock some sense into ’im?” 

“ Why, yes ; something like that.” 

“ Well, I did, an’ I ’ll do the same to 
you ef ye don’t ’ten’ closer to business. 
Come ! Git out there to them horses ! 
See w’ere they’re a-goin’ ! Jest look at 
that tow-line ! ” 

The man’s look ana manner were so 
fierce that Joe dared not even reply. 


ON THE CANAL. 


219 


He hurried out to his disagreeable task 
with a sinking heart, and began to draw 
up the tow-line, which had slipped under 
the boat, and which, after much scolding 
on Captain Bill’s part, was straightened 
out. 

The boat was “ locked through ” at last, 
and not long after Blixey called up that 
dinner was ready. The captain ate first, 
while Blixey minded the tiller. Then 
Blixey ate, and afterward relieved Joe on 
the tow-path. 

There was not much left when the boy 
reached the table, — not nearly enough to 
satisfy his hunger. But Captain Bill 
stood at the rudder-post looking fiercely 
down the hatchway at him, and when he 
had eaten what was on the table he dared 
not ask for more. 

“ Wash them dishes ! ” ordered the 
captain. 

Joe washed the dishes, put them away 
on the shelves, and then went up on deck. 
The light rain of the morning had settled 
into a steady downpour, and the boat was 
drenched. 


220 


A TALE OF THE TOW- PA TH. 


“ Here ! ” said Captain Bill, “ you come 
here. Now take a-holt o’ this tiller, an’ 
push it as I tell ye to.” 

Joe grasped the tiller, and the man 
went back and began to pump water from 
the hold. 

“ Pull it to ye ! ” shouted the captain, 
as the boy, wondering how it worked, al- 
lowed the tiller to swing slowly from him. 

“ Pull it to ye, I say ! Can’t ye see 
where the boat ’s a-goin’ ? ” 

Joe pulled; but it was no easy matter 
to check the impetus of the rudder in 
the opposite direction, and the boat still 
swung stem away. 

“ Pull ! ” shouted the man. “ Don’t 
stand there like a stick o’ wood. Pull ! ” 

The boy was pulling with all his might, 
but as yet without avail. 

Captain Bill dropped the pump-rod and 
sprang to the tiller. Seizing it on the 
opposite side from where Joe stood, he 
thrust it violently outward, pushing Joe 
with it, backing him across the deck, back- 
ing him relentlessly till the edge of the 
boat was reached. 


ON THE CANAL. 


221 


The boy to save himself from the 
water was obliged to turn and leap 
toward shore. 

Fortunately the boat was near the bank, 
and Joe was able to scramble up the tow- 
path, more frightened than either hurt 
or wet. 

Captain Bill shook his fist at him 
angrily. 

“You go ahead to them hosses,” he 
shouted ; “ and you, Blixey,” raising his 
voice still higher, “ you come back here 
an’ pump out this boat ! ” 

Blixey, who had seen Joe’s mishap, 
laughed hoarsely. His trembling knock- 
knees, as he walked toward the boat, 
seemed each moment likely to give 
way. 

Joe was very far from being in a laugh- 
ing mood. Never in his life had he been 
treated like this. Still, violently angry 
as he was, he feared to disobey this ruf- 
fian; he was even afraid to remonstrate 
with him. 

He went forward meekly, took the gad 
that Blixey handed to him, and resumed 


222 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


the monotonous task of urging on the 
tired and miserable horses. He was al- 
ready drenched to the skin, sore in mind 
and body, and sick at heart. 

Once as he walked, he chanced to re- 
member how he and his sister Jennie 
used to play on the haymow in the big 
barn on rainy afternoons. Somehow the 
memory brought tears to his eyes ; but 
he brushed them away and trudged 
on. 

Many loaded boats were met coming 
down, and many locks were passed. It 
was always a relief to the monotony to 
come to a lock, and take the horses 
around it, and wait while the boat was 
being locked through. Often there were 
little villages at the locks, too, and small 
stores fronting on the tow-path, and peo- 
ple looking out from behind the store 
windows. 

The rain came down as steadily as 
ever. The tow-path grew muddier and 
more slippery with every passing moment, 
and the long hours wore on. 

By and by it grew dark, but the boats 


ON THE CANAL. 


223 


in the canal kept moving. Lights shone 
from the cabin windows, and red lamps 
gleamed from the bows of the boats ; but 
the tow-path, where Joe walked, was 
wrapped in the deepest gloom. 


CHAPTER IV. 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 

It was a cold, rainy, and impenetrably 
dark night on the tow-path. Here and 
there was a lantern, which, when passed, 
seemed only to deepen the darkness. 

Now and then the swish of a tow-line 
in the water was heard, or the harsh 
scraping of a boat against another boat 
or against the timbers of the wharf. Men 
shouted hoarsely to one another or to 
their beasts. 

Along the muddy tow-path a pair of 
drenched and miserable horses were urged 
by a drenched and miserable boy. To 
this boy, who was Joe Gaston, it was all 
like some hideous dream. 

He moved under a constant strain of 
fear upon nerves already overwrought, 
and with incessant physical effort on the 
part of a body already worn to the verge 
of exhaustion. 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 225 

He found relief for a few moments 
while he ate his supper. The boat was 
waiting below a lock. The captain, who 
had already eaten, went out on the tow- 
path, and Joe’s only companion at the 
table was Blixey. 

When the two had eaten all that was 
before them, Blixey said : “ Well, young 
un, had enough, eh ? ” 

“No,” replied Joe, “I haven’t. I’m 
hungry yet.” 

Blixey rose, and climbed far enough 
up the cabin stairs to put his head out 
and make sure that Captain Bill was 
not on deck. Then he came back, and 
opening a little cupboard under the dish 
shelves, took out half a loaf of bread 
and some cold ham, and set it before 
the boy. 

“ Mum ’s the word,” he whispered. 
“ Don’t say nothin’, but jes’ git around it ’s 
quick ’s ye can.” 

Joe followed the advice without further 
delay. 

“ Blixey,” he said, between his mouth- 
fuls, “you’re very good.” 

15 


226 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


As he ate, the captain’s hoarse voice 
was heard from the tow-path : “ Blixey ! ” 

“ What is it, boss ? ” asked the negro, 
stumbling up the cabin stairs. 

“ Send that young rascal out here ! ” 

The negro crawled back part of the 
way down the stairs. There was a cer- 
tain compassion in his voice as he 
said, — 

“You’ll hef to go, honey, an’ right 
smart, too. I know him.” 

So Joe went, and took up again in the 
blackness of night his dreary, cruel task 
on the tow-path. He thought it would 
never end ; that the sun would soon rise 
at his back, and that he should be kept 
right on at his work through another 
day. 

But when Port Jackson was reached, 
at ten o’clock, the boat was tied up for 
the night. The horses were put under 
shelter in a stable near by, and fed. Then 
the two men and the boy went down into 
the cabin of the boat to go to bed. 

Under the stern-deck there were two 
bunks, and no more. These were occu- 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 227 

pied by the two men, so that Joe must 
sleep on the cabin floor. 

He was given an old quilt, and an over- 
coat for a pillow. Removing part of his 
wet clothing, he rolled himself in the quilt 
and tried to sleep ; but sleep would not 
come to him. His physical and his ner- 
vous system had undergone so great a 
strain and fatigue that he could not at 
once relapse into slumber. 

The cabin was shut tight to keep out 
the storm, but the water found its way in 
nevertheless. Little rills ran across the 
floor, and soaked the old quilt in which 
Joe was wrapped. The air of the room, 
which seemed little more than a box, be- 
came foul and oppressive. 

Visions of his own room at home floated 
into Joe’s mind as he lay there. He saw 
the spotless floor, the pictures on the 
walls, the pretty curtains at the windows, 
the warm, soft, tidy bed. He thought of 
the dear mother at his side, soothing 
him, with loving touch and gentle words, 
to sweet sleep and pleasant dreams. 

That he wept, then, tears of homesick- 


228 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


ness, of sorrow, of deep and bitter shame, 
until he had sobbed himself to sleep, was 
but evidence of the gentle and manly 
spirit that lay beneath his boy’s foolish 
pride and impetuous will. 

The next morning Captain Bill awak- 
ened Joe by pushing him rudely with his 
foot. 

“ Come, get up here,” he shouted, “ an’ 
go an’ feed them hosses ! ” 

Joe rose. He was stiff and sore from 
exposure and exertion. His damp cloth- 
ing, as he put it on, sent a chill through 
his whole body. 

He fed the horses, as he was told. 
After the crew had breakfasted in the 
cabin of the boat, the same monotonous 
round of duty was taken up that had 
occupied the day before. 

Rain was still falling, and the cold had 
increased. The water of the canal was 
muddy, and the stream that ran along 
below it was very high. 

The tow-path was softer and more 
slippery than it had been the previous 
day, and walking upon it was more diffi- 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 229 

cult. The boy who drove the weary and 
wretched horses through the mud and 
rain was far more tired and miserable 
than they were. 

Late in the forenoon the boat reached 
Ellenville. 

For more than a mile Captain Bill had 
apparently been on the lookout for some 
one. As they passed under the iron 
bridge and in toward the lock without 
meeting any one, the captain uttered a 
sort of grunt of disappointment. 

Just then, however, a man came down 
the tow-path, leading a gray horse. 

The man was short and stout, with legs 
that were so bowed that it was a marvel 
that they held him up at all. Captain 
Bill’s face lighted up as he caught sight 
of him. He leaped from the boat to 
the tow-path, and went ahead to meet the 
stranger. 

“Well, Callipers,” he inquired, “got a 
hoss for me ? ” 

“You bet,” replied the man, “an’ a 
powerful good un, too.” 

Captain Bill went close to the bow- 


230 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 

legged man, bent down to him, and said 
something in an undertone. The man 
listened and nodded. 

Then followed a conversation which no 
one could hear, except the persons en- 
gaged in it. It ended with Captain Bill’s 
counting out some money from a black 
and greasy leather wallet, and handing 
the money to Callipers. 

Then one of the captain’s horses was 
unfastened, and placed in possession of 
the bow-legged man. The gray took its 
harness, and its place at the tow-line. 

All this time Joe had been busy at the 
feed-box at the bow of the boat. At this 
moment he came up and discovered what 
was going on. 

The gray horse first attracted his at- 
tention. There was something about the 
animal that reminded him strongly of Old 
Charlie. 

He looked again, and more closely. 
The horse threw up his head and neighed. 
It was Old Charlie ! 

Joe gave a leap to the side of the boat, 
another to the tow-path, and in the next 
instant he was at the horse’s head. 



“ Where’d you get that horse?” Page 231 




CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 23 I 


“ Charlie ! ” he cried. “ Charlie ! Why, 
Old Charlie, is this you ? ” 

The beast whinnied, and putting his 
nose down against Joe’s breast, began to 
rub him in the old way. 

Captain Bill and Callipers looked at 
each other in open-eyed astonishment. 

“ Knows ’im ! ” exclaimed the bow-legged 
man. 

“ Seems to,” replied the captain. 

“ Who is ’e ? ” 

“ Don’t know ’im. He ’s a runaway.” 

The bow-legged man advanced and 
looked at the boy more closely. 

“ Bless my eyes an’ ears ! ” he exclaimed, 
drawing hastily back. 

He recognized Joe as the boy who had 
visited the stable the morning on which 
the horse was stolen. 

“ Good-by, Bill ! ” he said to the captain. 
“ I ’m goin’ ! ” 

But at that moment Joe, running 
quickly, intercepted him. 

“ Where ’d you get that horse ? ” he 
demanded, panting with excitement. 
“ Where ’d you get him ? ” 


232 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


“ I got ’im where ’e grew, sonny, but 
they aint no more like ’im, so you need n’t 
go lookin’ for one.” 

“ But I want to know — ” 

“ You don’t want to know nothin’. You 
go ten’ to them hosses,” interrupted Cap- 
tain Bill. “ See where the boat ’s gittin’ 
to. Mind your business and stop asking 
questions.” 

“ But that horse — ” 

“Never mind that boss. You ten’ to 
business. He ’s my hoss now ! ” 

“No, he’s not your horse! He’s my 
father’s horse He was stolen from my 
father’s barn. He — ” 

The captain took one step toward the 
boy, fastened his hand in Joe’s collar, 
and dragged and pushed him to his 
post. 

Joe was frightened and cowed. His 
lips turned white. He dared no longer 
disobey. 

He went ahead and resumed his monoto- 
nous duties, but in his brain was a whirl- 
pool of rage. 

The rain fell harder than ever; the 


CAPTAIN- BILL BUYS A HORSE. 233 

wind blew in fierce gusts; the tow-path 
was muddy beyond description. It was a 
day on which neither man nor beast should 
have labored except under shelter. 

Joe walked as much as possible at 
Old Charlie’s head, urging him gently 
at times, putting his arm caressingly over 
the beast’s drooping neck, or twining his 
hand in the long, wet mane. 

He talked to the horse, too, in the old 
familiar way; telling him of his troubles, 
pitying him for his own hard lot, sympa- 
thizing with him, until he fancied that 
tears stood in the horse’s eyes. He knew 
they were rolling down his own face. 

It was evident that the horse had been 
on a long journey, though the distance 
was not great from the place from which 
he had been stolen. 

The thief was a crafty and skilful one, 
and had kept the animal out of the chan- 
nels of travel, where search would be 
most likely. What adventures he had 
had, and what other operations he had 
carried on meanwhile, no one knew. 

Late in the afternoon, when both boy 


234 A TALE of the tow-path. 

and horse should have been relieved from 
further work, Old Charlie began to in- 
dulge in a habit which he had acquired 
on the farm. 

Whenever he had thought his work 
too hard, or his hours too long, or the 
weather too inclement for further labor, 
he would stop in his tracks and turn his 
head around to his driver, and stand gaz- 
ing in mute appeal, until he was urged 
forward. 

Charlie had never been punished for 
this. It was not really balkiness, for the 
horse went on stoutly after a moment’s 
rest. But for that matter, Old Charlie had 
been indulged at home in all sorts of 
queer ways. 

Now, however, the case was quite dif- 
ferent. Joe tried to make these inter- 
ruptions as short as possible, so that they 
should not interfere seriously with the 
passage of the boat ; but the horse’s 
conduct soon attracted Captain Bill’s 
attention. 

“Tryin’ to loaf, eh? Well, I’ll cure 
the lazy old beast o’ that,” he said. 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 235 

He took a whip from the cabin and 
tossed it out to Joe. 

“ Next time that hoss does that,” he said, 
“ whip ’im ! Don’t let him do it again.” 

“ No, sir ! I — I ’ll try not to.” 

Even as Joe spoke Old Charlie stopped, 
turned, and looked back at him with mel- 
ancholy eyes. 

“Go on, Charlie!” entreated Joe; 
“ that ’s a good fellow, go on ! ” 

But Charlie stood still, half-turned in 
his tracks, in mute remonstrance. It was 
new business to him, and he had not a 
favorable opinion regarding it. The 
leading horse, nothing loath, had also 
stopped. 

“ Whip ’im ! ” shouted Captain Bill from 
the boat, which, with its impetus, was 
bearing rapidly down on horse and boy. 
“ Thrash ’im ! ” 

Joe lifted the whip and let it fall lightly 
on the horse’s back. 

“ Get up, Charlie ! ” he cried ; “ get up 
now, quick!” 

“Oh, whip ’im!” cried the captain. 
“ Give ’im a good un ! ” 


236 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

Again the whip descended lightly on 
Old Charlie’s back ; but the horse did 
not move. This, too; was new treatment, 
which he did not seem in the least to 
understand. 

By this time Captain Bill was very 
angry. He seized the tiller, and swept 
it back till the stern of the boat touched 
the bank. “ Whip that hoss ! ” he cried, 
leaping to the tow-path, “ or I ’ll whip 
you ! ” 

For an instant Joe stood irresolute ; 
then, with sudden determination, he passed 
the handle of the whip to the angry man 
who faced him. 

“ I won’t,” he said slowly, with set teeth ; 
“ I won’t whip Old Charlie. I ’ll die 
first!” 

Infuriated beyond measure, Captain Bill 
seized the whip and raised it swiftly in 
the air. Just as it was about to descend 
on Joe’s head and shoulders, the fright- 
ened horse, swinging his body around 
nervously, caught the full force of the 
blow. 

But it mattered little to Captain Bill. 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 2 37 

The beast was as much an object of his 
wrath as was the boy. 

Again the whip cut the air and curled 
cruelly about the horse’s body. Again 
and again it fell, while Old Charlie, fright- 
ened and tortured, leaped and struggled 
for release. 

Poor Joe, who was trying alternately to 
soothe the horse and to entreat the man 
who was beating him, felt every stroke 
of the cruel whip almost as sharply as if 
it had been inflicted on his own back. 

At last the captain stopped. 

“ It ’ll be your turn next ! ” he said 
savagely, throwing the whip toward Joe, 
and leaping to the deck of his boat. 

The tow-line was pulled taut, and the 
boat moved on again. The poor beast, 
still quivering with excitement and pain, 
and allowing himself now to be led 
quietly along, showed by the occasional 
touch of his nose to the boy’s breast or 
shoulder that he wanted his sympathy and 
friendship. 

So they trudged on together, boy and 
horse, each helping and comforting the 


238 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

other, — on in distress and despair, through 
cold and rain and mud, into the darkness, 
the dreariness, the frightfulness of another 
night ! 

How they got through that evening 
until ten o’clock, Joe could never quite 
recollect. His memory recalled only a 
confusion of lights and noises, of splash- 
ing mud and roaring water, of tangled 
tow-lines and interfering boats. 

It was only when the horses had been 
put up for the night, and he was once 
more lying on the wet cabin-floor, listen- 
ing to the beating of the rain on the deck 
above his head, that he was able to think 
clearly. How everything that he had done, 
and all his woes and troubles, rushed 
before him ! 

With his prejudice and passion all 
swept away, he went over in his mind the 
events of the last three months. His 
follies and sins became as plain to him as 
if they had been committed by another. 
Slowly but surely, as he pondered, there 
came into his mind the irresistible con- 
viction that he must go home. 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 


The old and beautiful story of the 
Prodigal Son came up from the depths 
of memory and glowed before him. He 
would go back, as did the child of the 
parable ; but he would go in such repent- 
ance and humility as the Prodigal Son 
had never dreamed of. 

He could not wait. He resolved to 
start at once, — now, in the night, in the 
storm, if he could but escape his keepers. 

But there was Charlie, — poor Old 
Charlie! — who deserved, far more than 
did he himself, to escape from the suffer- 
ings of the present. How could he leave 
the old horse? 

A thought came into his mind so sud- 
denly that it brought him up on his elbow. 
Charlie should help him to escape ! He 
would take the horse home where he 
belonged. They would go back to the 
old home together. 

Joe lay back for a moment, almost 
breathless with his scheme. Then, cau- 
tiously laying his quilt aside, he rose, 
put on his jacket, hat, and shoes, and 
climbed softly up the steep cabin-stairs 
to the deck. 


240 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

The rain had ceased at last, and low 
in the west a half-moon was struggling 
through the mist of clouds. 

For a moment Joe listened. No sound 
came from the sleepers in the cabin. 
Then he leaped lightly to the tow-path. 
It was not far to the stable where the 
horses and mules were kept, and he lost 
no time in going there. 

As he opened the door and peered into 
the darkness of the stable, the heavy 
breathing of the sleeping animals came 
strangely on his ears. 

In a near stall, a dim, white shape 
struggled up and was still. It was Old 
Charlie. He recognized his young master 
with a subdued neigh, and tossed his head 
impatiently. 

The next moment Joe had untied him, 
and led him out into the night. 

“We Ve got a long . ride before us, 
Charlie,” he said, standing for a moment 
at the stable door to transform the halter 
strap into driving reins. “ It ’s a long 
ride ; but then, you know, we ’re going 
— we ’re going home ! ” 


CAPTAIN BILL BUYS A HORSE. 


Again the horse tossed his head, as if 
he understood. Joe, catching hold by the 
mane, leaped to Charlie ’s back, as he had 
done many times in the dear old days. 

He rode slowly down the little hill to 
the tow-path, turned in the direction from 
which they had come, — the direction in 
which home lay, — and galloped away. 

Away they went toward the east, with 
lighter hearts and higher spirits than 
either had known before for many a day. 
To Joe it seemed that he was doing no 
more than his duty in riding away with 
Old Charlie. He was too inexperienced 
to know that he had no right to seize the 
horse in this way, even though the animal 
was his father’s lawful property. He was 
too much confused by his sufferings and 
excitement, moreover, to have a nice sense 
of propriety in such a matter. 

As he passed the boat he had just left, 
Joe noticed that there was a light in the 
cabin window. He heard a noise there 
as of something falling. To his ears came 
distinctly the sound of angry words from 
Captain Bill. 

16 


CHAPTER V. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 

The window of the telegraph office on 
the canal at Ellenville faces the tow- 
path. Although day was breaking and 
the sky was cloudless, the telegraph oper- 
ator was still working by the light of an 
oil lamp. 

He was taking a message, which, when 
it was reduced to writing, read as 
follows : — 

Stop boy on gray horse going east. Horse 
stolen from me. Coming at once to claim 
property. 

William Rosencamp. 

The operator, with the telegram in his 
hand, went out at the door and looked up 
the canal. As he did so he saw bearing 
down upon him a gray horse ridden by a 
boy. It was Joe with Old Charlie. 


HOMEWARD BOUND , 


243 


Both boy and horse were splashed with 
mud, and bore evidence of having come 
far and fast through the night. 

The operator stepped quickly out upon 
the tow-path, and threw up his hand, with 
the telegram still fluttering in it. 

“ Stop ! ” he shouted. “ Hold up, there ! ” 

Joe reined in Old Charlie, and the 
young man seized the improvised bridle. 

“ Where are you going with this horse ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Home,” replied Joe, promptly. 

“ Is n’t this Bill Rosencamp’s horse ? ” 

“No, sir,” said the boy, stoutly; “he 
is n’t. He ’s my father’s horse ! He was 
stolen, and I ’m takin’ him back home.” 

“ Did n’t Captain Bill have him ? ” 

“Yes, but he had n’t any right to him, 
and he abused him, too.” 

“ Did n’t you take him without Captain 
Bill’s knowledge ? ” 

“ Of course I did ! I could n’t have got 
’im at all if I had n’t.” 

“ Well, I guess you ’d better get off and 
let me take charge of the horse, and we ’ll 
investigate this matter a little. Come,” 


244 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


he called, as Joe hesitated, “get down! 
Get down, I say ! ” 

The boy let himself wearily to the 
ground. 

Several men and boys who were stand- 
ing near the offices and on the tow-path 
came crowding about. 

“ The superintendent is due here soon,” 
said the operator. “ He ’s coming up 
with the paymaster, and he ’ll settle 
it.” 

On the canal the superintendent’s 
authority was almost absolute. Local 
authorities deferred to him in all matters 
pertaining to the canal and its employes, 
unless the law were formally invoked. 

The crowd stood about impatiently. 
The operator still held the horse, and 
Joe stood near, looking confident and 
very earnest. Presently a steam-launch 
came puffing up the canal, gave two shrill 
whistles, and was quickly made fast to 
the dock. 

A heavy, well-built man, with a closely 
cropped beard and a kindly face, stepped 
from the deck to the tow-path. He was 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


245 


followed by a man who carried a heavy 
valise, and by one or two other men. 

They were the canal superintendent 
and the paymaster and their assistants. 

“ What ’s the matter here, Matthew ? ” 
asked the superintendent, approaching the 
group. 

“ This boy is charged with stealing this 
horse,” replied the operator. “ Here ’s 
the message.” 

The superintendent took the telegram 
and read it. 

“ Is this Bill Rosencamp’s horse ? ” he 
asked, turning to Joe. 

“No, sir!” repeated Joe. “He isn’t. 
He ’s my father’s horse.” 

“ But he acknowledges having taken 
him from Rosencamp,” the operator 
explained. 

“ Well,” said the superintendent, “ Rosen- 
camp is coming. When he gets here we 
shall find out whose horse it is.” 

“ But I don’t want to stay here till he 
comes,” said Joe. 

“ Probably not,” remarked the operator, 
sarcastically. 


246 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


The superintendent, who seemed to 
perceive that this was not an ordinary 
case of horse-stealing, now looked more 
closely at Joe, and noticed the boy’s hag- 
gard, hungry look. 

“ He won’t hurt you,” he said. “ Rosen- 
camp ’s a rough fellow, but he won’t hurt 
any one around here ; and if it turns out 
that the horse is yours or your father’s, 
you will get possession of him, of course. 
Meantime we shall have to find out the 
exact truth of the matter. Have you had 
any breakfast ? ” 

“ No, sir,” replied Joe, ** I have n’t had 
any, nor Old Charlie either.” 

The superintendent smiled. “ Matthew,” 
he said, “ tell the stable-man to take this 
horse up to the barn and feed him and 
rub him down. And you,” turning to 
the boy, who was not a little bewildered 
by the invitation, “ come with me.” 

He led the way across the street into a 
large boarding-house. There, is a warm 
and pleasant dining-room, Joe ate the 
first good meal he had taken in several 
weeks. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


247 


Under its cheering influence his heart 
warmed, his tongue was loosened, and to 
Mrs. Jones, the kind landlady, who sat by 
and served him, he told the story of his 
folly, his suffering, and his desire. 

When he had finished his breakfast, 
Mrs. Jones went with him to the office, 
and calling the superintendent aside, 
said, — 

“ This boy is no thief. He is honest 
and right in what he has done.” 

“We shall soon find out about it,” was 
the reply. “ Here comes Rosencamp.” 

Captain Bill rode up to the office door, 
dismounted, and tied his horse. To the 
group of men and boys who quickly sur- 
rounded him he told, with many threats 
and much rough language, the story of 
his night ride, and denounced the wicked- 
ness of Joe. 

“ Ef I once git my hands on hm he 
muttered, “ he ’ll never want to see another 
hoss agin as long as he lives ! ” 

Tired with his journey, splashed with 
mud, his face red with anger, he entered 
the office and demanded the gray horse. 


248 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


“ Was it your horse that the boy took ? ” 
inquired the superintendent. 

“ Course it was,” replied Captain Bill, 
with a fine pretence of indignation. 

“ Where did you get the horse ? ” was 
the next question. 

“ Bought ’im.” 

“ Where ? ” . 

“ Right here in Ellenville.” 

“ From whom ? ” 

Rosencamp hesitated a little. “ I don’t 
rightly know the man’s name,” he said. 
“ A feller ’at had ’im to sell.” 

“ I know!” piped out a shrill voice from 
the crowd that had gathered in the room. 
“ It was Callipers, the man that ’s been 
in prison for horse-stealing. I see ’em 
strike the bargain here on the tow-path 
yisterday.” 

Rosencamp lost something of his 
bravado. The kindly look disappeared 
from the face of the superintendent. 

“ Did you get this horse from Calli- 
pers ? ” he asked severely. 

“Well, yes, if that’s what ’is name is,” 
replied Captain Bill, doggedly. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


249 


“ Don’t you know that Callipers has 
been convicted of horse-stealing ? ” 

“ I don’t know ’s I do.” 

“ And did n’t you know that this horse 
had been stolen ? ” 

“ If I had ’a’ knowed it, do you s’pose 
I ’d ’a’ took ’im ? Who says it was a 
stolen hoss, anyhow ? ” added Captain Bill, 
looking the crowd over savagely. 

“ I say so,” said a man who had just 
entered the room. “ I saw Callipers ar- 
rested last night for stealing the horse he 
traded to Bill Rosencamp. The constable 
has the irons on him now, and the sheriff 
has gone across to Port Jervis to head off 
the horse.” 

“ Well, Rosencamp,” said the superin- 
tendent, “ what have you to say to 
that ? ” 

“ If the hoss was stole,” said Rosen- 
camp, “how was I to know it? Nobody 
told me it was stolen.” 

' “ Yes, somebody did tell you ! ” exclaimed 
Joe. “ I told you the horse was stolen, 
and the man you got him of stood right 
there an’ did n’t deny it, either ! I said it 
was my father’s horse, an’ it is ! ” 


250 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


The superintendent turned to Joe. 
“ Who is your father ? ” he asked. 

Joe hesitated a moment. Then he 
replied, “ His name is Gaston.’’ 

“ What Gaston ? Do you mean Leon- 
ard Gaston, of Laymanville ? ” 

“Yes, sir, that’s his name. That’s 
where he lives.” 

“ And you — look here ! Are you the 
boy who ran away from home last June? 
I know your father, if you are Joseph Gas- 
ton, and I know that he has been breaking 
his heart about you for three months.” 

Joe turned his face from the crowd, 

and looked down at the floor. There 

* 

was perfect stillness in the room. Joe 
was the first to break the silence. He 
held up his head, and looked the superin- 
tendent squarely in the face. 

“ I did run away from home,” he said, 
“ and it was foolish and it was wicked. I 
did n’t know it then, but I do now, and I 
want to go back, especially since I found 
the horse. I think maybe if I take Old 
Charlie back with me they — they won’t 
be so hard on me ; they — they ’ll be 
gladder to — to — ” 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


251 


The boy burst into tears, and broke 
down completely. The superintendent 
rose from his chair, and opened the door 
into a private office. 

“ Here,” he said to Joe; “come in here. 
1 want to talk with you.” 

On the threshold the superintendent 
turned to look at Captain Bill. 

“ Are you going to institute proceedings 
against this boy ? If you are, he will be 
placed under bonds, and I shall become 
his bondsman. If you are not going to 
prosecute him, you may go straight back 
to your boat,” he said sharply. “ And if 
I hear of your dealing in stolen horses 
again, or abusing any more boys, this 
canal company will dispense with your 
services on very short notice.” 

Rosencamp, disappointed, cowed, more 
angry than ever, knowing that he could 
not prosecute Joe, made his way to the 
door and out to the tow-path amid the 
jeers of the waiting crowd. He mounted 
his horse, and rode away. 

Fifteen minutes later Joe and the super- 
intendent came out from the private office. 


252 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


It was evident that the boy had been 
weeping ; but in his eyes there was a look 
of gladness and firmness that expressed, 
more plainly than words could have done, 
the condition of his mind. 

“ Matthew,” said the superintendent, 
“ tell the stable-man to get this boy’s 
horse, put a saddle and bridle on him, 
and bring him here. Have him get out 
a horse for you, for I want you to go with 
the boy as far as Darby town. From 
there he knows the way home, and can 
go alone.” 

That afternoon, while the sun was still 
high, Joe and Old Charlie were on the 
highway not far from their home. Mat- 
thew had left them at Darbytown, after 
getting a good dinner for all of them, 
and now they were travelling homeward 
alone. 

The old horse jogged on, trotting or 
walking as he liked, stopping at the road- 
side now and then to nibble at a tempting 
bunch of grass or a bit of fresh foliage, 
or to plunge his nose into the cooling 
waters of a wayside stream. 





Homeward Bound. Page 252 




HOMEWARD BOUND . 


253 


Even now, however, they were not mak- 
ing very slow time on the whole; and 
earlier in the day they had gone faster. 
It had seemed to Joe that he could not 
wait till the white front of the old farm- 
house should come into sight from the 
top of Hickory Hill. 

The eager anticipation of his return to 
the dear old home had heightened his 
spirits, and brightened his eyes. 

But after Matthew left him he began to 
think; and the more deeply he thought, 
the slower became his progress. Many 
suspicions and misgivings had come into 
his mind. 

He no longer paid heed to the beauty 
of the day, the splendor of the sun, or the 
rich luxuriance of the early autumn foli- 
age. He was looking only into his own 
heart. He was thinking only of his inex- 
cusable folly and wickedness in leaving so 
good a home. He was wondering what 
his father would say to him ; how his 
mother would receive him ; whether his 
little sister would ever again care to play 
with him as of old. 


254 A TALE of the tow-path. 

He was wondering, indeed, if his parents 
would wish to have him come home at all, 
disgraced as he was ; if the door of his 
father’s house would not be shut and 
barred against him forever. 

“ Hello, ther ! Wat ’s the matter wi’ 
ye?” 

The exclamation, coming so suddenly 
and unexpectedly, so startled Joe that he 
almost fell from his horse. He had been 
so deeply engrossed in thought that he 
had not seen any one approaching. He 
looked down now and discovered a little 
old man standing near the horse’s head. 

The man was shrunken, knock-kneed, 
eccentric in dress and manner, and leaned 
heavily on his cane. Joe recognized him 
at once as a neighborhood character, 
whom every one knew by the name of 
Uncle Billy. 

“ W’y, I thought ye was asleep,” said 
the old man. “ I was fearful ye ’d tumble 
off the hoss.” 

“I wasn’t asleep,” replied Joe, “I was 
thinkinV’ 

“ A-thinkin’ ! ” exclaimed Uncle Billy; 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


255 


“ w’at right ’s a boy like you got to be 
a-thinkin’, I’d like to know?” He ad- 
vanced a step and laid his hand on Old 
Charlie’s neck. “ Ben a good hoss in ’is 
day,” he commented ; “ looks like the 
hoss Leonard Gaston use to hev, — the one 
’at was stole.” 

“It is,” replied Joe; “it’s the same 
horse.” 

The old man started back so quickly 
that he tripped and almost fell over his 
cane. 

“ Who be you ? ” he exclaimed, shading 
his eyes with his hand, and looking up 
intently at Toe. “You aint foe Gaston, 
be ye?” 

“ Yes, I am ; I ’m Joe Gaston,” responded 
the boy, sadly. 

Uncle Billy retreated still farther. 
“Well, I’m dumflustered ! ” he exclaimed. 
After a minute he added, “ W’ere ye 
gojn’ ? ” 

“Home!” replied Joe. 

The old man shook his head solemnly. 
“Ye won’t git much of a welcome ther,” 
he said. 


256 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 

“ Why ? Is my father set against me ? ” 
asked Joe, anxiously. 

“Set aginst ye? That’s puttin’ it too 
mild. He ’s cast ye off. He ’s unherited 
ye. He won’t speak of ye to nobody, an’ 
he won’t let nobody so much as mention 
yer name in his presience. Now what ye 
think o’ that ? ” 

The old man seemed to take delight in 
giving his unwelcome information. He 
looked up at Joe with a quizzical smile 
on his thin face, and waited for an 
answer. 

Joe did not reply to the question, but 
after a minute he asked, — 

“ Do — do you know whether my mother 
feels the — the same way ? ” 

“ Of course she doos! First along she 
purty near cried ’er eyes out over ye. 
She went around tnakin’ out ’t ye never 
stole that hoss ; said ye ’d be back in a 
day or two an’ clear it all up. But she ’s 
give ye up now. They don’t none on 
’em ever expect to see ye agin ; an’ w’at ’s 
more, I guess they don’t none on ’em 
want to. What ye think o’ that ? Hey ? ” 


HOME WARD BOUND. 25 7 

Again the old man smiled grimly at 
Joe, and again Joe left his question unan- 
swered. He was struggling now with a 
great lump in his throat that was grow- 
ing larger and more uncontrollable each 
moment. 

“What — what does my little sister — 
what does Jennie think? ” he asked, chok- 
ing sadly over the question. 

“ Well there now ! ” was the reply ; “ that 
gal — I did n’t think o’ her. She don’t 
da’s’t talk about ye to hum, ye know, but 
w’en she ’s away she kind o’ finds oppor- 
tunities to discuss the subjec’. ’T wa’ n’t 
but last week she says to me over to 
Williams ’s place, says she, ‘ It ’s awful 
lonesome without Joe,’ she says. ‘ I wisht 
he ’d come back an’ be a good boy/ says 
she. ‘ Aint it sad about his goin’ away 
so ? ’ she says. ‘ Do you think he ’ll come 
back agin soon, Uncle Billy?’ says she. 
An’ I says, ‘ No, he won’t never come 
back agin. He ’s gone too fur,’ says I, 

‘ in more ways ’an one,’ says I. What ye 
think o’ that ? Hey ? ” 

But this time Joe could not have an- 
17 


258 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 

swered the question if he had tried. The 
lump in his throat seemed to have dis- 
solved into tears ; they filled his eyes, and 
ran freely down his face. 

The old man saw that the boy was crying, 
and for a moment seemed to repent his 
hardness of heart. 

“ I ’m sorry for ye, sonny,” said Uncle 
Billy, after an awkward pause ; “ but I tell 
ye they aint no use o’ yer goin’ hum ; 
they don’t ixpect ye, an’ they don’t want 
ye.” . 

Still Joe sat, weeping and speechless. 

“ Well,” the old man added, “ I must be 
joggin’ on. Somebody might come along 
an’ see us two together, an’ — well, I ’ve 
got a reppytation to lose, ye know.” 

He burst into a shrill cackling laugh, 
grasped his twisted cane more firmly, and 
hobbled on around a bend in the road 
and out of sight. 

Old Charlie, unheeded by his young 
master, started on. 

The sun sank till the light it threw on 
the green September foliage was mellow 
and golden. From somewhere in the 


HOME WARD BO UND. 259 

distance came the ting-a-ling of a cow-bell, 
as the herd wandered slowly home. The 
sound and the memories it brought started 
fresh tears into Joe’s eyes, and when the 
mist they occasioned had cleared away he 
found himself on the summit of Hickory 
Hill. 

Down in the valley, half-hidden by trees, 
he saw the white front of his home. Be- 
hind it rose the gray roofs of the barns ; 
before it stretched the yellow road ; on 
it fell the soft light of the dying day. 

He had drawn the reins and sat looking- 
down on it, while Old Charlie, pricking up 
his ears in glad recognition of the familiar 
sight, pawed the ground impatiently. 

“ No,” Joe said, at last, “ we won’t go on. 
It ’s no use. I ’m sorry, but — it ’s no 
use.” 

He turned the horse’s head, and Joe 
and Charlie started back. 


CHAPTER VI. 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACK JOE. 

On the day Joe left home his mother 
put his room in order for him as usual, 
and placed on the table a little bouquet of 
red and white geraniums and verbenas. 
She could not believe that he would be 
gone over night, and she knew that when 
he came he would be tired, broken, re- 
pentant, and grateful for the least mark 
of tenderness. 

She delayed supper beyond the hour, 
in the hope that he might come. Even 
after the others had forced themselves to 
eat, she set aside enough for Joe. 

She went many times to the east win- 
dow to look down the road for him, and 
sent Jennie to the top of the hill to see if 
she could discover in the distance a boy 
riding toward her on a gray horse. 

But Jennie, whose eyes had been full of 
tears all day, came back at dusk to say 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACK JOE. 26 1 

that she had seen nothing. Then she 
went weeping to bed. 

The next day came, and many days 
thereafter; but Joe’s room was still vacant, 
and Old Charlie’s stall was still empty. 

Farmer Gaston’s grief was less touching 
than his wife’s perhaps, but it was really 
as deep as hers. The habitual sternness 
of his face was tempered with the lines 
of sorrow. 

He had made no effort to find the 
horse. There was no doubt in his mind 
that Joe had taken him ; but he did not 
care to bring the boy into deeper disgrace 
by making public search. 

Mr. Gaston sometimes wondered if he 
had taken the right course with Joe. His 
theory had been that the more strictly a 
boy was held to his work and duty as a 
boy, the more earnestly would he follow 
both as a man. 

But he began now to think that possibly 
he had been too strict with Joe. Had he 
not left too little room for independence 
of thought and action ? Had he tried to 
smother those boyish instincts of freedom 


262 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


and fair play that go, no less than other 
qualities, to make up the man ? 

His grief was mingled thus with a 
degree of remorse ; but he still believed 
that it would not be wise to go out in 
search of Joe, offering terms of forgiveness. 
The boy’s offence had been too great for 
that. His own salvation depended on his 
coming back voluntarily in repentance and 
humiliation, with a full confession of his 
fault. 

The hot days of July went by, and the 
hotter days of August. The summer 
tasks went on as of old about the farm, 
but the old place had never before been 
so silent and lonely. 

The lines on Mr. Gaston’s face grew 
deeper. He went about with shoulders 
bent, as if bearing some heavy burden. 

Joe’s mother, pitifully silent and anxious- 
eyed, not venturing to question the wisdom 
or oppose the will of her husband, went 
every day to place fresh flowers in Joe’s 
room. Every night she sat and looked 
up the long road to the east till darkness 
came and swallowed it, hoping, waiting, 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACH JOE. 263 

and yearning for the sight of her return- 
ing boy. 

Meantime there had been, after a long 
delay, a movement in the community to 
look a little more deeply into the matter 
of the disappearance of Joe and the horse. 
Squire Bidwell, who happened to be at 
once the local justice of the peace and a 
good friend of Joe Gaston, found it hard 
to believe that the boy who had been an 
apt and receptive pupil in his Sunday 
school had proved to be a common thief. 

The squire, moreover, had been Farmer 
Gaston’s friend from boyhood, and he saw 
with great pain the havoc which Joe’s 
disappearance, and his father’s belief in 
his guilt, was making in the family. He 
resolved to do what he could to probe 
the matter to the bottom. 

He called together three or four of his 
most prudent townsmen, and set them at 
work making inquiries and doing a sort 
of detective work. Presently it was found 
that a farmer in an adjoining town had, 
on the evening of the day after Joe’s dis- 
appearance, while driving a cow from pas- 


264 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 

ture, seen a rough-looking man ride a gray- 
horse out of a wood-lot, and had found 
the place where the man and the horse 
had apparently passed several hours, and 
eaten a meal or two. 

This clew was followed up. Still far- 
ther on other traces of the real thief were 
found. He had now passed quite beyond 
any jurisdiction of Squire Bid well, but 
the authorities were notified of what had 
been learned, and were on the alert. 

Callipers was well known through pre- 
vious misdeeds. The man who had been 
seen answered his description. For a long 
time he evaded pursuit ; but at last, as we 
have seen, he was apprehended, the very 
day after he had turned Old Charlie over 
to Rosencamp on the canal. 

Late one September afternoon, after a 
day of sunshine and blue skies, Joe’s father 
sat on the westerly porch of the farm- 
house, looking away toward the lake, on 
which the shadows were now falling deep- 
ly, and thinking of what had occurred on 
its shores on a memorable day in June D 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACH JOE. 265 

On the steps at his feet, her chin in her 
hands, thinking also of poor Joe, sat his 
daughter Jennie. Mrs. Gaston, busy with 
some household task, moved about in the 
rooms near by. 

Suddenly through the lane around the 
corner of the house came Squire Bidwell. 
He declined Mrs. Gaston’s invitation to 
enter the house, and Mr. Gaston’s invita- 
tion to take a chair on the porch. Then 
with some embarrassment, as though he 
were treading on delicate ground, the 
squire said, — 

“Neighbor, you remember that gray 
horse you used to have ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Gaston, coldly. “ I 
remember him.” 

“ Well, some of us were talking about 
that horse the other day, and — and we 
kind of thought we ’d look him up. We 
have n’t found him yet — ” 

“ No, I presume not.” 

“ But we found out who took him.” 

“ I suppose we know who took him,” 
said Mr. Gaston, uneasily. 

“ I don’t think you do, Gaston,” said the 
squire. “It wasn’t Joe.” 


266 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


“ What ! ” exclaimed the farmer. 

Mrs. Gaston had approached, and called 
out eagerly, “ Mr. Bidwell ! ” 

“ O Joe! Oh, goody!” screamed Jennie. 

“ No,” repeated the squire, “ it was n’t 
your boy. It was a common horse-thief, 

— a bow-legged, stumpy fellow by the 
nickname of Callipers.” 

“ Are you sure about this ? ” questioned 
Mr. Gaston. “ What evidence have you 
got ? ” 

“ You won’t deceive us?” exclaimed Joe’s 
mother. 

“ No, Mrs. Gaston, I would n’t,” said 
the squire, who had now found his tongue, 

— “ not for anything. What I ’m telling 
you is truth, every word of it. Joe didn’t 
take that horse. He did n’t know any more 
about the taking of that horse than you 
did, — not a bit. But we ’ve run down the 
man who did it, from one clew to another, 
and the deputy sheriff ’s got him in a 
wagon out here in the road in front of the 
house now. Will you go out and see 
him ? I guess maybe he can tell you 
something about Joe. He seems inclined 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACK JOE. 267 

to make a clean breast of it. I ’d have 
brought him around here with me, but 
the sheriff’s got handcuffs on him, and 
it ’s hard to get him out and in the 
wagon.” 

The next minute all four were on their 
way to the front gate. Callipers sat there 
in the wagon, under the eye of the deputy 
sheriff, with stoical indifference on his 
face. 

“ Good evenin’, ladies ! ” he said briskly, 
as the party approached him. “ Good eve- 
nin’, Mr. Gaston, sir. I ’m sorry to ’ave 
put you to the trouble of cornin’ out ’ere, 
sir, but circumstances over which, as I 
may say, I have no control has made it 
inconwenient for me to meet you in your 
’ouse.” 

“ Never mind that,” answered Mr. Gas- 
ton, sharply. “ I ’ll talk to you here.” 

“ Thank you, sir ! f ’m glad to meet 
you an’ your hinteresting family, sir. I 
’ad the pleasure o’ visitin’ your ’andsome 
place once before, sir. It was in lovely 
June, in the early mornin’, sir. I may 
say it was so early that I ’ad n’t the ’eart 


268 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH. 


to disturb your slumbers. But as the 
result o’ that ’ere visit, be’old me now ! ” 

The man held up his hands to show the 
steel bands firmly clasped about his wrists, 
and joined by a few short links. 

“ Do you know anything about my 
son?” asked Mr. Gaston, abruptly. 

“Yes, sir. I will proceed with my tale. 
You see I was jest about to enter the 
stable door that mornin’ w’en that young 
feller appeared a-comin’ down the path, 
and as ’e appeared I disappeared be’ind 
the corner o’ the barn. He went in w’ere 
the ’oss was, an’ talked some sort o’ rub- 
bish to ’im about ’is goin’ away an’ all 
that, you know. I could n’t quite make 
out the drift of it. But ’e bid good-by to 
the ’oss, an’ went out a-wipin’ of ’is eyes, 
an’ struck into the road ’ere, an’ walked 
away in that direction.” 

The man was about to indicate the 
direction referred to ; but finding his right 
hand securely clasped to the other, he 
abandoned the attempt, begging to be ex- 
cused from pointing out the direction. 

“ Seein’ that the ’oss was up an’ awake,” 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACK JOE. 269 

he continued, “ an’ probably would n’t 
sleep no more that mornin’ anyhow, I 
took ’im with me into the country.” 

“But about Joe, the boy? ’’asked Mr. 
Gaston, eagerly. “ Have you seen him 
since ? ” 

“ Well, yes, sir, I ’ave. But now, look 
’ere ; you expects me to criminate myself, 
do you ? ” 

“ It will probably go less hard with 
you,” said Squire Bidwell, “ if you tell the 
whole story of your performances, and 
reveal what you know about this boy that 
you ’ve put under such a grave suspicion.” 

“ All right, all right,” said the horse- 
thief. “You’ve got me, ’ard and tight, 
that ’s sure, an’ I don’t see no way out o’ 
it, now. I can give Mr. Gaston informa- 
tion that will lead him to the boy and 
the ’oss, sir.” 

Then the man told how he had seen Joe 
on the canal, driving the tow-horses. 

“ How do you know it was our son you 
saw ? ” inquired Mr. Gaston, sternly. 

“ Well, it was the same lad that went 
into the barn an’ came out of it again 


270 


A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 


that lovely mornin’ in June. Besides, this 
’ere gray ’oss was there, you know, and 
the ’oss knowed ’im, an’ ’e knowed the 
’oss. W’y, w’en they see each other on 
the canal, they was that tickled they 
rubbed noses an’ cried, — both of ’em.” 

“Papa,” exclaimed Jennie, “that was 
Joe! I know it was! It was Joe and 
Old Charlie!” 

“To tell the truth,” said Callipers, “the 
lad didn’t look just to say swell. ’Is 
clothes, if I must remark on ’em, seemed 
to be summat the worse for wear. His 
jacket an’ trousers was jest about so-so. 
’Is shoes ’ad give out in places too 
numerous to mention. An’ there was 
’ardly enough left of the ’at ’c ’ad on to 
make it proper to speak of it.” 

“ Father,” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, 
“ we must get him at once. He is in 
want; he is suffering! He is honest, 
too. He has been foolish and headstrong, 
but he is honest, and we have wronged 
him in our thought every day for three 
months. Now he must come home ! ” 

It had been many years since Mrs. 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACH JOE. 2JI 

Gaston had expressed herself in so posi- 
tive a manner as this to her husband. 
But now it was not necessary. He was 
as impatient for Joe’s return as she. 

“ I shall go to-morrow morning,” he 
said firmly, “ and find him and bring him 
home.” 

For the last two or three minutes Squire 
Bidwell had been gazing intently at some- 
thing that had attracted his notice off on 
the hillside in the distance. 

“ Well, I declare !” he exclaimed, finally, 
“ that is curious. Look ! ” 

He pointed to the place where the open 
country road wound up the long slope of 
Hickory Hill. The sun had so far de- 
scended that the valley was in shadow, 
but it was still flooding the hilltops with 
its yellow light; and in its glow the figure 
of a boy on a horse, almost a mile away, 
was distinctly outlined. 

“ Do you see them,” asked the squire, — 
“up there in the road? They’ve done 
it twice or three times already. Now 
they’re going to do it again; watch 


2*]2 A TALE OF THE TOW-PATH 

What “ they ” had done was this : The 
boy was apparently laboring under some 
indecision, as if wishing to remain on the 
top of the hill. The horse, however, was 
plainly bent upon rushing down the hill 
toward the house. After a plunge down 
the road, the rider would succeed in turn- 
ing the animal’s head up again ; but he 
would no sooner have got a fair start in 
that direction, than the horse, swinging 
suddenly around, would begin to gallop 
furiously down the road once more toward 
the Gaston farm. 

Now, again, in sight of them all, the 
boy succeeded in stopping the horse, in 
turning his head, and forcing him to re- 
ascend the hill ; and once more the horse 
whirled about and plunged down the road 
toward the house. 

This time, however, he received no 
check. The boy, as if in weariness and 
despair, allowed the reins to droop. The 
animal sped on, and the next moment 
both were hidden behind the trees at the 
bend of the road. 

Mr. Gaston, shading his eyes with his 


OLD CHARLIE BRINGS BACK JOE. 273 

hand, still stood gazing intently at the 
place where horse and rider had disap- 
peared. 

Mrs. Gaston’s white face and eager 
eyes, fixed on the point where the road 
came out of the grove, showed that she 
divined the truth. 

“It is Joe!” she said, with forced 
calmness. “He is coming home!” 

Then Old Charlie, with his young mas- 
ter on his back, bounded into sight, and 
presently boy and horse were in the midst 
of the group. 

The next moment Joe was kneeling in 
the road, with his father’s hand clasped 
in both his. 

“ Father ! ” he said, “ will you please 
forgive me and let me come home ? ” 

Before the father could reply, the arms 
of Joe’s mother were around him, and 
Jennie was laughing and crying and 
clinging to his neck. 

Then the good old horse, pushing his 
nose in among the four faces that he 
loved, met with a welcome that was no 
less sincere. 


18 


274 A TALE of the tow-path. 

“ He made me come/' explained Joe, 
a minute later. “ I got to the top of the 
hill, and my courage gave out, and I 
did n’t dare come down, and I thought I 
would ride back on the road a piece far- 
ther, and then turn the horse loose and 
let him come home, while I went on afoot; 
but Old Charlie would come, whether or 
no, and — ” 

Joe’s voice gave out. Every one cried 
a little. Even Squire Bidwell and the 
deputy sheriff and Callipers had tears in 
their eyes. Mr. Gaston’s face, even with 
the tear-marks on it, was radiant. 

Soon the squire and the deputy sheriff, 
with their prisoner, Callipers, drove off 
toward the county seat. Then the whole 
Gaston family went with Old Charlie to 
the stable, and gave him his supper and 
his bed before seeking their own. 

Joe’s father and mother and sister were 
happy people that night. 


THE END. 



























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